


Perspectives

by MalTease



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalTease/pseuds/MalTease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
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    <a href="http://s1179.beta.photobucket.com/user/rosalinabambina/media/ce3c82471ce838ff3afaf343e39fdae9_zps9cc76490.jpg.html"></a>
    <br/>
    <img/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>The interactions of Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen, from the point of view of those around them. Pre-HG to Post-MJ
            </blockquote>





	1. His Father

**Author's Note:**

> It’s probably been done before, but what I plan to do with this story is take a look at various instances where the lives of Peeta and Katniss interact, from their childhood to post-Mockingjay, but from the point of view of the people surrounding them. The perspectives will be from secondary characters in the book, and each chapter will give you an indication of who will be talking from their relationship with either Peeta or Katniss.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think! Each review will give me the possibility to improve my writing and perhaps add on any ideas that you might have. Thanks for reading :)

I try to tighten my hold around my sobbing two-year-old son as we make our way to the rundown shack at the edge of the Seam. With our blonde heads, fair complexions, and clean clothes, we stand out like sore thumbs, and the glaring eyes that stare at us from broken windows make sure to remind me of how much of a bad idea this could possibly be. 

The merchant class avoids the Seam like the plague. It is surprising, and also inexplicably sad in my eyes, that even in a district as small as ours, already fenced and segregated to the edges of Panem, its inhabitants have decided to increase the unnecessary divide by pushing its poorer dwellers, united equally in their misery and colouring, to the outskirts. In District 12, the Seamers are doomed to their mines and to the grey dust surrounding their forgotten streets, but I’m one of the very few members of the merchant class that has limited interaction with them. This is of course due to the absolute necessity of my wares. They hate me just as the rest of my class, but I help in keeping them fed, and possibly that is one of the reasons why their reaction to me brazenly walking towards the Everdeen shack is limited only to suspicious looks without any physical demonstration. 

At the moment however, as my son clings tightly to my neck, and the blood pours out of the side of his head, I would have been ready to pick a fight, _and win it_ , hands down, in order to get to the healer of this area. “We’re almost there, Peeta,” I whisper soothingly. “Mrs Everdeen will make your head all better,” I tell him, as I knock on the cracked wooden door. 

May Everdeen opens the door and only takes one look at Peeta before setting aside any emotions that my surprise visit, after all these years, may have generated. She steps back and lets me in without a word, before unlatching my son gently from my neck and setting him on the kitchen table.

“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” I begin. “The apothecary in Town has been taken ill and there was so much blood - ” I stop suddenly when she looks at me in alarm.

_Of course, the apothecary is her father, you moron._

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks quickly, and the sharp tone in her voice shows me that, for now at least, she is asking about the old apothecary.

“Just a cold, don’t worry May,” I respond, trying to reassure her while willing her with my eyes to turn her attention towards Peeta, who is still hiccuping in his tears. 

“I was made to stop worrying years ago, Wheaton,” she replies with a wry smile and a nod, “but I’m glad that it’s nothing serious. Let’s look at this little man now,” she adds, directing a warm smile towards my son. 

“He was at the bakery with me, he slipped off his stool and hit his head with the corner of the counter,” I explain, trying to keep the panic and guilt off my voice. “I didn’t know what to do, he was crying so much…”

May examines his cut and looks at me carefully. “Is it really that, Wheaton? Did she-“

“No!” I interrupt before she can go further, and wince at how widespread and well known my home situation seems to be. “He’s so young, and small, I would never let her…No, May, as long as I can keep him away from her, I do,” I admit sadly. As tragic as it may sound, it is true though. I do keep my two year old son away from his mother, even though I cannot understand how anyone could possibly want any harm to befall on him. His brothers had not needed such protection when they were his age, Naan had been strongly desired by both of us, and serious and well behaved as he always was, he was the pride of his mother. Barley was also planned, and though not the girl Leila had wished, he was such a cheerful daredevil that as soon as he could walk, he pretty much forgot all about his parents as he rushed all over the place, on his secret expeditions and fanciful missions. We couldn’t keep up with him, so we let him be, other than trying to get him to reach adulthood in one piece.

When Leila became pregnant again, she was absolutely certain that it was going to be a girl. A sweet little girl who would share her green eyes, her love for sewing, and who would want to spend her time with her while I work my long hours at the bakery. She spent her whole pregnancy thinking of girl names, asking me to paint flowers on the crib, and already imagining what her life with her new daughter would be like. I feel terribly guilty about indulging her fantasies in that way. I should have known better, and should have reminded her that we couldn’t be sure, and that there was still a fifty percent chance that we would be having another boy. I let myself enjoy her enthusiasm, and allowed myself the peace of mind of seeing her at her happiest in those nine months preceding Peeta’s birth. Then our youngest son was born, blue eyed and blonde like his brothers and me, and my wife shut him out of her life in bitter disappointment. 

Peeta stopped yearning for his mother’s attention very early in his young life. His strength and sense of preservation seem to have developed as rapidly as his sweetness.

He sits at May’s table now, and slowly calms down as she washes away the cut with warm water and some natural concoction that she brewed in the few minutes that we’ve been in her kitchen. His tiny fingers clutch the torn, threadbare blanket that he loves so much, and his big, innocent eyes look out to me in gratitude. He’s still at an age where he thinks that I’m his everything, and I can’t even bear to think of the day where he will realise just how much I have failed him, by not being able to convince his mother to love him, as all little boys his age deserve. He sighs as May gently brushes away his hair from his temple with her fingers, and my heart breaks when I see his head instinctively lean towards her touch. I wince inwardly when I realise just how starved of love my youngest son is.

“It’s just a small cut, it won’t need any stitches,” May remarks with a smile. “Cuts in the head bleed a lot, but he should be fine in no time. Just indulge him a little today, give him an extra hug or two,” she suggests, smiling at Peeta warmly. 

He grins back at her and stretches his little arms at her. “Hugs?” he asks hopefully.

May looks at me and asks for permission with her eyes, before I nod. She hugs him gingerly and calls him _a brave brave boy_ ¸ before we are joined by a little girl with dark hair and grey eyes, all Seam. She looks at the scene with a serious, unreadable expression in her solemn face before clutching at May’s skirt possessively. 

“Your girl?” I ask rather redundantly.

“Yes,” she replies with a small smile, “this is Katniss, she came to check on our visitors, haven’t you little girl?”

Katniss does not reply, but does not seem to be very happy at our intrusion either. Unlike Peeta, I don’t believe that she gets to be very much around people, or at least, definitely not strange men with blonde hair and their sons. She just glares at us with steely eyes and scrunches her dark nose in distaste.

From his perch at the kitchen table, Peeta looks at the girl closely before piping out, “Sad? Want Blankie?” As I watch him offer his beloved blanket to the girl, I can’t help thinking how tough life is going to be for my youngest son if he doesn’t learn how to stop being so giving and selfless all the time. My thoughts are confirmed when Katniss ignores his proferred blanket and runs off to hide behind the couch, staring at us suspiciously, without blinking. 

Peeta turns his face towards me, hurt and confused, his eyes brimming with tears of rejection. “Oh Peeta, don’t mind Katniss,” May tells him soothingly, “she’s not as friendly as you, and doesn’t have many children to play with,” she explains, looking at me apologetically.

I shrug sympathetically and pick up my son, who buries his head into my shoulder. “Sometimes he’s more sensitive than his own good,” I reply, “he’ll get over it,” I add with a grin.

After thanking May, and giving her a bag of freshly baked buns that I had had the good sense of bringing with me, I make my way out of the door to take the road that would lead me out of the Seam. Just as I’m a few steps away from the shack however, I hear a tiny voice cry “bye Peeta!”, and I turn to see little Katniss standing on the doorstep, waving at us.

My son jumps in my arms and nearly topples over my shoulder to be able to wave back. “Bye Kadnish!!” he yells, digging his knees in my chest in his enthusiasm.

“Bye!” she replies hopping on her tiny feet as she waves madly.

“Bye!” he answers again, waving with both arms.

This back and forth of happy waves and screaming of goodbyes between the two toddlers continues until we’re out of sight of the Everdeens’ home, and when Peeta can’t see Katniss any longer, he deflates slightly and snuggles back into my arms. “Thank you, Papa,” he whispers softly, “head better,” he adds, yawning sleepily.

“I’m glad to hear it Little One,” I reply with a kiss on his bruised forehead. “So did you like Katniss?” I tease.

Peeta burrows his head into my neck shyly and whispers “pretty” but refuses to say more. I know that this was not a good idea, and I know that I will have to make sure that my son doesn’t say anything about our excursion to anyone, especially his mother, but I’m not too worried about that. It’s not the first time that he has managed to keep things from her but I know that I should be worried about the interest that he showed for May Everdeen’s daughter, in view of our history together, and especially because of Leila’s reaction to it. 

I keep silent, however, and let my son enjoy his first encounter with a pretty girl. They will not see each other again before starting school in a few years’ time, and I highly doubt that their life will give them much opportunity to interact. He’s from Town, and she’s from the Seam. There is not much in our life and District that could possibly overcome that divide.


	2. Her Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for your "kudos". Every one of them means a lot and I really appreciate it! This chapter deals with the point of view of Katniss’ father. Once again, it is an interaction that is not part of the original books … but as from the next chapter, things should start looking a little more “familiar”. I hope you enjoy it, please do tell me what you think!

Prim’s giggles and excited cries are so loud that I can hear them clearly over the din that the hundreds of people gathered in the middle of Town are making. Tonight is the only night of the year where all of us District dwellers, both Town and Seam, meet and mingle with no thought of the divisions that we have foolishly created for ourselves. The square in front of the Justice Building is turned, every year on this night, into a colourful, musical arena where all the merchants set up their wares, enthusiastic musicians play on stage, and where the whole area is decorated by the artists from 12 to reflect the beauty and magic of the Moon Festival.

I remember my grandfather telling me as a child that many years ago, before the beginning of the Fourth World War, and before the dropping of the Bomb that nearly wiped us all out and which made the land recede, there was a celebration on this same night called Christmas. This was before organised religion was banned with the creation of Panem, in a time where people still felt the need to trust that there was something beyond them to give a reason to their daily strife. Then the War and the Bomb came, followed by Panem and the Capitol, and little by little, people preferred to believe that there was no God, rather than a God that allowed their life to crumble before their eyes. 

I sometimes do wonder if there is anything beyond the mundane struggles of my daily life as a miner, husband and father, but I know well enough not to externalise such thoughts. From our infancy, in Panem we are made to believe, in the Capitol we are forced to trust, and that is the beginning and the end of it. Any other truth is inconsiderable. However, I push these musings aside as I look down to see my excited four-year-old daughter clinging to my hand, her face alight with glee, as we make our way through the square to celebrate the beginning of the Longer Days that will slowly lead us into spring and then summer. Katniss is on my other side, tall and more solemn than an eight year old ought to be, her enjoyment of the night evidenced by the muted smile she gives me before giving my hand a little squeeze. 

This is the one day of the year where I try to treat my girls and to make them feel no different from the fair skinned, blonde merchant girls who Prim so ironically resembles. Each year, as from the beginning of autumn, I try to set aside some coin every week so that I may not deny them little gifts from the stalls, even though they have learnt early on in their lives not to ask for anything. I’m proud of my girls, and this is the night where I can reward them for being so brave to endure the year that would have just passed, and to encourage them to do the same in the following winter months. This is also the night where their mother just lets me spend time with them, since this is so rare due to my long shifts at the mine, and remains at home to prepare a sparse feast with which to treat our daughters.

The snow starts to fall, and the crowd reacts in delight as the white flakes cover the sharp, ragged edges of our district and slowly give the square a muted glow as they allow it to reflect the warm lights of the stalls. Even the fiddlers on stage change their tunes into something softer and slower, and the whole atmosphere is turned into one of general, uncommon, happiness. Prim hops in excitement, and cries in delight as she catches sight of the stall of the Mellarks. “Please Daddy! I just want to look!”, she begs and she tugs at my arm.

Tonight we can try to go beyond looking, I tell myself, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise for her, especially if I find that the money I have in my pocket is not enough for the Baker’s fresh wares. 

Wheaton Mellark mans his stall with his usual joviality, but his ready smile falters just a little when he sees me approaching with my girls. It’s been nearly fifteen years, but I know that things are still unresolved between us, and I also know that it is mostly because of me. My wife May and I had fallen in love with each other while she was still promised to him and even though Wheaton and I had known and respected each other before that, I never found the courage to go up to him after our toasting to apologise, or even to just talk about it. So the closure never really happened, and the tension never quite dissipated between us. I know that Katniss and his youngest son are in class together, since my daughter mentions the boy sometimes at home, but as parents we never really tried to mingle at school fairs or concerts. I guess I always felt throughout the years that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. This method worked brilliantly for my conscience.

Whatever Wheaton was thinking however, he managed to hide it well, and greeted Primrose with that kind of smile that a man who really wishes for a daughter could bestow. While he cheerfully chitchats with her, I catch sight of Peeta, Katniss’ classmate and youngest Mellark, who is perched comfortably on a table behind the counter of his father’s stall, with a sketchpad on his lap, and a pencil in his hand. He seems startled to see us, and buries his nose in his drawings, chewing on his lip and doodling assiduously. I sneak a look at Katniss, who stares at him in silent interest, before turning my attention to Wheaton.

“Mellark,” I start awkwardly, as I greet him with a nod.

“Everdeen,” he replies in the same vein, “came to look at some cookies for the girls?” 

I nod with a smile and look down at Prim, who is craning her head to look at the trays, her eyes round and bright with wonder at the decorated cakes and cookies. “You have really outdone yourself this year, Wheaton,” I remark. “I’m not sure I will be able to tear away Prim from here before dawn,” I add jokingly. 

“She can stay here as long as she wants,” he replies, “but you’re giving me credit when none is due. It’s my lad, Peeta, who did all the decorating this year.”

I look at the boy in surprise. He must be eight like Katniss, but his workmanship is akin to that of a much older person. He sits up straight and glows with pride as his father pats him on the shoulder, only to deflate in embarrassment with my next words. “Katniss mentions you sometimes, she tells me that you draw very well,” I tell him kindly. My daughter stiffens and frowns as she ducks her head and stares at her boots. 

“Thank you, sir,” Peeta mumbles, and awkwardly starts to scrawl nervously on his sketch pad again. He steals a look at Katniss and his face falls when he sees her stubbornly avoiding his gaze. My daughter digs her boot in the snow and squirms while Wheaton and I turn to look at each other and raise an eyebrow. 

“Peeta, Naan and Barley are bringing over some boxes from the bakery, why don’t you go help them?” he asks. The boy jumps off the table and runs off in the direction of the bakery without a second glance. 

“Katniss, honey, take Prim to see some ribbons at Moira’s stall. I’ll see you there in a few minutes with some cookies, okay?” Katniss nods and leads her reluctant sister to the nearby stall while I lean towards Wheaton and narrow my eyes.

“Your kid? And my kid?” I ask in mock exasperation. “Did you know about this? Surely you must see the irony!”

Wheaton shrugs. “He mentions her more times than he ought to, but he’s eight. It’s just a little crush, he’ll get over it,” he replies nonchalantly. “He has to,” he adds tightly.

I can’t help but taking offence at what he seems to be implying. “He can do much worse than my daughter, you know,” I reply, trying to make a joke out of it. 

“I will not allow him to mix with the Seam, Jack,” he lifts his hand to silence me when I bristle and open my mouth to retort. “I’m not talking about May and you now. That the past and I’ve come to accept her decision, whatever my opinion of her current situation may be. I’m talking about my son. As the youngest of three boys I already have the problem of not knowing what to do with him. He can’t have the bakery, but I sure as hell don’t want him in the mines.”

I shut my mouth as I see Peeta returning to the stall, his thin arms holding a box that seems far too heavy for him. He would never survive in the mines. Wheaton is suddenly called to deal with a throng of eager customers and I stand silently aside, looking carefully at the boy as he empties the box from some fresh loaves and places them industriously on some metal trays. He keeps glancing at me nervously, and is visible terrified when I actually address him.

“So you know how to draw?” I ask awkwardly. 

He gulps, nods and mumbles “yessir, sir.”

I smile at his double use of the word sir, and can’t help but wonder how long it will take him to realise that a miner from the Seam is no sir. I also wonder how long it will take him to start treating Katniss in the same way Town boys treat girls from the Seam, and how old he will be before he calls her a seam-slut in her face. I only realise that I’m glaring at him when I see him cower before me, his hands nervously clutching at the strings of his worn apron.

“And what do you draw boy?” I ask again, secretly, well not so secretly, enjoying myself as I terrorise an eight year old kid who had the cheek to take a fancy to my eldest. 

“Scenery sir, things,” he replies quickly, “faces…” His voice falters when I raise both eyebrows at his last admission.

“And what kind of faces? Girls? My girl?” I ask ominously as I kneel down with him and stare at him intently. 

I force myself to take a look at him, a look at this boy who seems to be infatuated by my girl. I take in his mop of golden hair, blue eyes and fair skin, a complexion that only serves to accentuate the burns and bruises on his arms. I know all about his mother, and I marvel at how he can still seem to be such a decent, positive chap with the reminder of his greatest rejection facing him constantly at home. I realise that the eyes that nervously stare back at my own are free from any resentment, anger or negativity, but are full of sweetness and hope. 

“You’re a good boy. A very good boy” I whisper before I can help myself, and he rewards my indiscretion with a shy, albeit very surprised, smile. 

He reaches for his sketch pad, his hands wavering for a moment before he takes a deep breath and tears a page out of it. “I think you should have this, Mr Everdeen. I’m sorry,” he whispers as he hands me the paper.

It’s a picture of my daughter, drawn in broad, strong strokes with his pencil. It seems to be taken during school hours, as Katniss stares serenely out of the window of their classroom. I don’t think he should apologise for capturing my daughter’s understated beauty in such a way, but I’m sure not going to tell him that.

“Thank you,” I reply a little stiffly. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” 

“I have others,” he blurts out and blushes. “Sorry,” he says again helplessly.

_Of course he has others…_

I look down at him and try to look stern. “I see. I hope they’re all decent, my boy!”

Peeta squirms and his father, who has in the meantime served his other customers, comes to his rescue. “For goodness sake, Jack, he’s eight, of course they’re bloody decent!” he huffs. “Make sure they remain like that, boy,” he adds, pointing his finger at his son’s face in warning. “Now go help your brothers before they destroy the bakery on each other’s head!” The boy nods and scampers back to the bakery. 

I stare at the picture in my hand and turn to look at Wheaton thoughtfully. “It’s just a crush,” I tell him, repeating what he had just told me a few minutes before. “It will pass.”

He looks at me grimly. “For the sake of both of them, it better.” 

I know that I should agree with him. Katniss and Peeta come from different worlds within a confined, miniscule district, and nothing good could ever come out from a possibly attachment between them. My wife May somehow manages to survive in the Seam through her skill as a healer, but Katniss would never be accepted in the merchant class, and Peeta would fade away in the darkness of the mines. But as I remember his open, honest face as he looked at me, I can’t help but think that he is the sort of boy that I would love to see besides my daughter. 

I shake these thoughts out of my head, buy the cookies and think of the warm meal my family and I will share tonight, one of the last ones before the cold winter that has started with tonight’s snow takes over, and I comfort myself with the thought that as long as I am there for my family, my daughters will not need anyone else but me.


	3. His Eldest Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always … a big thank for all the support I’m getting for this story. You are making me beyond happy.
> 
> This chapter deals with a familiar incident - the “tossing bread” scene. Hope you enjoy my take on what happens after in the Mellark household :).

The rain pours and I’m drenched to the bone in minutes as I run blindly towards the bakery. My worn boots are completely useless by the sludge that quickly starts to cover our muddy street, and my feet literally seem to turn into ice as I squelch my way home in the early dusk. It is painful, uncomfortable and I’m pretty sure that I am on my way towards developing a nasty cold, but I don’t care. I’m happy, dazed, numb and scared. But _happy_ scared. I just kissed Molly Thames, _and she kissed me back_. She’s my girl now… _I have a girl_. After months of shy glances, stolen smiles and awkward greetings, Molly decided to take matters in her own hands. She just happened to be at her grandmother’s house when I was meant to delivery her daily order of bread, and she just happened to smile in that sweet way of hers when I was looking, and finally she just decided to do all the talking that needed to be done for both of us. In response, I was expected to do nothing but nod, smile and oblige her with all the embraces and kisses she wanted from me. I think I can keep on doing that forever. 

I’m so lucky that Grandma Thames is blind and senile. And I’m so lucky to have Molly’s heart as my own, and the only thing that stops me from whooping out in joy as I splash through the puddles, is that I’m Naan Mellark, fifteen and solemn, and serious and unflappable. With my disposition on show and my reputation in check, I limit my joy to a wide grin and a steady stride, braving the rain until I catch sight of the glow coming from the bakery windows.

My pace, together with my grin, falters however when I hear my mother scream and push my youngest brother Peeta out of the door in the rain, hitting him hard in the face and giving him hell for being useless and worthless while ordering him to throw some bread, which he seems to have presumably burnt, to the pigs. _Seriously??_ I love my brother and all, but sometimes he seems to just mess up on purpose. At eleven, he’s not a child anymore, and he should know better than to burn bread, especailly not so late in the month when the flour supplies are dwindling, and the next supply train is still days away. I see him look around warily before his eyes, together with mine, rest on a huddled, shivering figure slumped against the apple tree just across our backyard. It takes one me just one look at his face to understand. It’s Katniss Bloody Everdeen. 

_The little bastard. He did mess up on purpose._

I see them share one look, his eyes mournful and worried, and hers hungry, worn, desperate and resentful as she looks at the pigs, as if she were jealous that they were being treated with more mercy than she was. I hear her gasp audibily as Peeta quickly looks into the kitchen, and tosses the bread to the wet ground just in front of her. With a burst of energy, she grabs the bread and runs away, almost bumping into me as she clutches the warm bread as if it were her sole source of life. As I look at her skinny frame as she scuttles into the dark streets, I can’t help wondering whether that thought is really that far away from the truth. I walk slowly up the front steps to the bakery and lock eyes with Peeta, whose face is pressed against the window pane, silently begging me to keep silent.

Ten minutes later I’m in our bedroom, sitting on his bed and pressing some ice, which I had wrapped in a worn cloth, against his rapidly swelling cheek. He winces slightly, and I realise that I am pressing the ice somewhat more roughly than he deserves, especially given the circumstances and this evening’s events. However, I am annoyed at him for ruining my evening plan, namely that of lying in bed thinking of Molly and smiling at nothing. I’m more annoyed at myself though, for being old enough to feel bad about being angry at him for getting beaten up in the first place.

“You idiot,” I hiss at him, as I examine his cheek, “you know how she is, you should know better than to rile her up like this!”

“I did nothing wrong,” he mutters, as grabs the bag of ice from my hand and proceeds to press it on his cheek. He makes a show at being very gentle about it, and I roll my eyes at him impatiently.

“You cannot stay feeding everyone that turns up at our door Peeta. People starve and die sometimes. It happens, this is reality, and you can’t do anything about it,” I insist. “Many times we don’t even have enough for ourselves. What if she goes and tells everyone at the Seam about this? What if tomorrow we get a line of them begging for food?”

“She won’t tell anyone,” he replies sharply. “You don’t need to worry about _them_ coming at our doorstep and sharing your dinner.”

Somewhere in the past half an hour, my youngest brother seems to have grown a backbone, and some sort of attitude attached to it. I don’t like it.

“What the hell is your problem?” I retort. “Do you think you will get that Everdeen girl to like you just because you tossed her bread in the rain? Is this what this is all about?”

Peeta glowers at me. “She hadn’t eaten for days, Naan. Didn’t you see how she looked? She was looking for food in our trash can before Mother sent her away to die.” His voice breaks at the end of the sentence, and I say nothing, taking in the implication of his words. If what he said was true, then technically Mother had sent an eleven year old girl to starve to death in the rain. I don’t like the direction that this conversation is going.

With his next words, I realise that the conversation is going to take a far, _far_ worse turn. “It’s nice to know how much my family will care when it’s me looking for food in the trash can,” my brother says disdainfully. The ice is melting in his hands and he flings it at me angrily. “Take it to the kitchen with you,” he tells me coldly.

I don’t move. I just sit next to him and look at him with dawning horror. “What are you talking about?” I whisper, although I know very well what he is alluding to.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he snaps. Then his face takes on this sad, resigned look that I sometimes see flitting across his face on rare occasions. It’s a look that should not be seen on such a young boy’s face.“I hear Mother and Dad talking about it all the time.,” he continues, an angry flush creeping up his face, “I even overheard you and him once. I know what my future is going to be like. I just hoped that my family would learn to show me compassion when I’m the one begging for food. Or at least my kids if I ever have any. With Mother’s little show this evening, it seems pretty unlikely.”

I swallow the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat and look away. Peeta’s future is something that is often discussed between my parents, and Dad worries about it so much that he has sometimes even discussed it with me. He is not an old man by all means, but the problem of who will get the bakery after he retires or dies is something that, with three sons, he always worries about. He told me once that if Barley and I keep the family business running diligently, we would just be able to both work in the bakery and make a decent living for ourselves and our families. We would manage to live comfortably in town, but for Peeta, things looked much bleaker. Nonetheless, I never thought that at his young age, he would already be aware of the very real possibility of him working in the mines and living in the Seam in poverty, away from us. 

It is not a very common sight to see a Town boy working in the mines, but it does happen. They are usually the youngest child of a merchant family like mine, or the ones that marry stubbornly into the Seam, and often, they don’t last very long. 

“Don’t be silly,” I whisper. “It won’t come to that. You just need to find a girl from Town –“

“With no brothers to take over the family trade...yeah I know” he finishes for me, while rolling his eyes. “That’s not the point so shut up, Naan.”

There is not much point in telling me to shut up. I am feeling so devastatingly guilty that I have not much to say at this point. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to murmur. Sorry for telling him off for throwing the bread at Katniss. Sorry for not being surprised or worried about his bruise, or about any of his other bruises. Sorry for being born to live a long life in relative comfort, while he will have to get by by breaking his back below the ground. 

As sensitive as he is, I think Peeta manages to see what I’m trying to convey with that whispered apology, and his eyes soften. I get up and walk to my clothes drawer, and pull out a little tub of salve that I had once bought after a particularly nasty row that involved Mother and both Peeta and Barley. I had felt particularly brotherly towards them that day, seeing them sob and huddle against each other with matching welts on their arms and cheeks. Peeta had been so grateful that he had made my bed and cleaned my boots for a month. He is such a sweet kid, it is really hard to keep your distance and not be affected by his good nature. 

As I gingerly rub the salve over his cheek, Barley bursts into the room with his usual smug grin and general enthusiasm over anything. “Mellark-in-the-Middle strikes again!” he hollers as he throws himself over Peeta’s mattress. We both wince at the noise the springs make, yet another reminder that this bed has hosted too many Mellark boys to be able to retain its function for long. As with everthing else, I get the new stuff, while Peeta has to make do with castoffs that have passed through my hands and those of Barley. 

“I kissed Lilly Carter, and I kissed her with _tooongue_ ” he drawls proudly. I scowl at him, almost telling him that Mellark-on-Top scored before him. But I don’t want to share my evening with Molly with anyone, that’s just for me and her. I let it pass, but make it a point to shoot him a warning glance and to shift my head towards Peeta. 

“This is not the time,” I hiss at him. 

Barley looks at Peeta quizzically. “What did you do now, Tiny? I heard Mama say you burnt your share of dinner. Empty stomach and a bruised face? Again?” 

My youngest brother is used to him, and does not even bother to try and look hurt. However, it is very clear that he is not impressed at being called “Tiny”. At thirteen, Barley has just begun his growth spurt. Saying that he is being quite annoying about it with his younger brother is quite an understatement. 

I sigh, and pull Barley up from the bed. “Time for dinner,” I announce, before sharing a knowing look with Peeta. “Smuggle you something later?” I ask kindly.

His face brightens up in gratitude. “Yes, thank you,” he says with a smile, and I know that, for now at least, all is well between us.

I smile back and make my way down the stairs to the kitchen, trying to absorb the conversation that just went on between us. Then the guilt feeling starts to return, and I block it out and think of Molly.

Everything is so much easier if I ignore all thoughts about our future. 

The next day during lunch recess, I see Peeta staring across the school yard at Katniss Everdeen, who seems to be back at school. She still looks pale and gaunt, but she seems to be alert, and aware of her surroundings, which is a big improvement from how she looked huddled up against that tree.

I feel a surge of indignation as I see the looks that my brother gives her. _How dare she not notice him?_ To my surprise I suddenly find myself walking towards her, ready to give her a piece of my mind and order her to stop whatever she is doing and start liking Peeta, when I suddenly see her bend down to pick up a lonely dandelion that had just sprouted in the yard. I stop abruptly in my tracks and watch her breathe in its scent, before turning her eyes to Peeta for one unguarded, exposed second.

That quick, undisguised look of gratitude tells me what I need to know, and as Molly walks up to me and laces her fingers through mine, I find myself smiling broadly. 

_Perhaps, just perhaps, my brother’s prospects are not so hopeless after all._


	4. Her Best Friend's Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dears, I’m cheating with this chapter…it is NOT new material, but merely the inclusion of my little ficlet “Introducing Pyrrhus” into this story, because I think that it fits the timeline and the sequence of events well. Also, this story actually gave me the idea behind Perspectives, i.e. that of looking at the main story from the eyes of the secondary characters. For those who haven’t read it, I hope you like it and for those who did, sorry :). However, I’m working on the next chapter as we speak, and it is quite a bit darker! I hope to update soon…thank you so much for all your encouragement. Every review is a gift :).

I, Rory Hawthorne, do not pride myself on being the smartest of guys, or the best planner, thinker, plotter or military champion, but there is no other way to describe this guy King Pyrrhus than as being a complete _idiot_. I mean, yes _fine_ , he did defeat the Romans in the battles of Heraclea and Asculum, but the cost of such victories was an overwhelming and devastating defeat in the Pyrrhic Wars and the loss of his whole army. Honestly, all it would have taken was some forward planning, _seriously_.

I am fascinated by history, and spend many happy hours reading the rare books that Madge Undersee manages to smuggle for me from her father’s library. I am amazed by the progress that had been achieved by our forefathers, hundreds of years before the Fourth World War, and also bemused by the complete disregard of their achievement by my generation and the ones preceding it. Before Panem was rebuilt from the ashes of the War, there was another continent, called Europe and thousands of years before that, the Roman Empire, against which this poor guy Pyrrhus sought to flash his scrawny ass. Winning one battle, but with a devastating loss that will make you lose the War - now I know what a Pyrrhic Victory is. What perhaps is unusual is that I gained this piece of knowledge by sticking my nose in a book (which I so smartly disguised with the cover of _Panem’s Most Influential_ ) during the Annual Wrestling tournament which all the school had to attend. 

I hate wrestling.

Not that I have much of a choice really. With our tall, lanky frames, us Hawthornes are not made to be wrestlers. Instead we are born dark, broody and mysterious. Or at least, so I would like to think. I achieved the “dark” genetically through birth, but the broody is still confused with whiny, and the mysterious part is as yet dormant. My brother Gale, however, has perfected all three and added, somewhat unfairly, the sardonic rise of the eyebrows which I will never be able to achieve. Quite annoyingly, my face is unable to force one eyebrow up without the other, resulting in my best sardonic expression looking like the impersonation of a round eyed ginger bread man. Gale however, generally broods and attracts, but is at the moment making this wrestling tournament a living hell for all those sitting next to him.

“Come _on,_ Thatcher!! Seriously?? Beaten by the Bread Boy?!” he yells, as our neighbour Niall Thatcher is pinned down easily be Peeta Mellark. He snorts in disgust while Mellark helps his opponent up with a friendly shake of the hand and an apologetic smile. I am not sure why my brother dislikes the Baker’s son so much. I haven’t spoken to him often, since we obviously move in different circles, but he does seem to be an extremely decent sort of chap, and I never heard anything bad about him, not even from my fellow Seamers. And truly, we can be quite a bitter bunch of people. Hunger makes you grumpy I guess. Gale however, seems to be taking Peeta’s obvious physical propensity towards wrestling quite badly, and his brow furrows into a more pronounced scowl with every match that Mellark seems to be winning.

Speaking of scowls, Katniss Everdeen is sitting with us, and is the usual epitome of joy, with her only contribution to the event being a mindless gnawing of the end of her braid. I am pretty sure that my brother is taken with her, though honestly, I do not see the charm. Personally, I’m more appreciative of a _lighter_ sort of girl, or at least one whose lips have the ability to conjure a smile. Katniss Everdeen scares the crap out of me, and I try to stay in her good books as much as possible.

I’m just about to share the story of King Pyrrhus with Gale and Katniss, because I do find it highly educational and of general interest, but I’m interrupted by the over-enthusiastic announcement of Principal Applethorpe, who introduces the finalists of this year’s Wrestling Competition.

“And in an exciting twist, as they get ready to fight as brother against brother, give a warm applause to our two finalists, Barley and Peeta Mellark!” he cries, as he pushes forward the two Mellark boys. Peeta has the grace to look extremely uncomfortable, while Barley, with his trademark grin and inbuilt cockiness, dispenses winks and attention to the female crowd indiscriminately. From the corner of my eye, I see Katniss shift in her seat, and hear Gale growl under his breath.

_Huh? Wha-at?_

The two brothers shake hands and Barley grabs Peeta and whispers something in his ear, gesturing rather conspicuously at our area of the stands and mouthing very obviously “she is looking at YOU”. Peeta flushes and glares at his brother, his eyes narrowing in a rare display of annoyance. We are surrounded by many girls, including Delly Cartwright, who I usually see hanging around him, but somehow I’m starting to think that Delly might not have been the girl that Barley was referring to. Gale sits next to me, straight and stiff as if he has just been presented with a painful pole that was stuck up his ass, and randomly yells, “Go get him Barley Mellark!!!”, to the surprise of the fifty odd people who hear his shout, and who turn to look at him with blank faces and obvious _what the hell?_ expressions. Katniss stops gnawing at her braid and frowns.

_Oh Gale …_

For someone as minimally bothered with wrestling as I am, the match is still extremely interesting. Both Mellark brothers are strong, stubborn and determined to win, and for some minutes both opponents seem to have an equal chance of success. After a while however, Barley’s two year advantage gives him the upperhand, and he manages to pin down Peeta, accentuating his win with a cocky grin and a friendly wack on his brother’s head.

Gale is just as smug as Peeta is crestfallen. “A bit over-ambitious weren’t you young Bread Boy?” he mocks snidely and extremely loudly. Peeta looks at us but does not reply. Instead he and Katniss catch each other’s gaze, and share a small, sad smile, and a similar blush. Their eyes hold each other’s rather more than I think necessary before Katniss looks down, her all too familiar scowl softened slightly by her flushed cheeks. “A miss is as good as a mile, isn’t it Mellark?” my brother continues, seemingly on a smug roll. Peeta doesn’t even hear him. His eyes are still stuck on Katniss, and his reaction to her sympathetic smile is nothing short of adoration.

_Stupid Gale. Stupid, simple, oblivious Gale._

I wrap my arm around his shoulder in a rare show of public affection. “Brother,” I begin, “have you ever heard about this guy called Pyrrhus?” I ask breezily.

Gale Hawthorne needs a lesson in Pyrrhic Victories it seems. And I, Rory Hawthorne will take all the time necessary to give it to him.

Following that, I’ll practice brooding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dears, I’m cheating with this chapter…it is NOT new material, but merely the inclusion of my little ficlet “Introducing Pyrrhus” into this story, because I think that it fits the timeline and the sequence of events well. Also, this story actually gave me the idea behind Perspectives, i.e. that of looking at the main story from the eyes of the secondary characters. For those who haven’t read it, I hope you like it and for those who did, sorry :). However, I’m working on the next chapter as we speak, and it is quite a bit darker! I hope to update soon…thank you so much for all your encouragement. Every review is a gift :).


	5. Their Mayor's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, this is my take on the Reaping, and on why in the same year, two very improbable statistical choices are selected to be Tributes. Can I confess that I’m really really nervous about posting this chapter? Please … be nice, even if you do not agree with my theory :). Thank you for your support…I will keep on saying it because I will keep on meaning it!

For most, I am Madge Undersee, the Mayor’s Daughter. For my classmates, I am also Madge Undersee, the only girl who hangs out with sour, taciturn Katniss Everdeen. For Rory Hawthorne, I’m Madge Undersee who lives in a large house with a big library. No one has ever been interested enough in me to look beyond these superficial labels in order to describe me. All throughout my life, I have been the shy, withdrawn girl in the background, with nondescript features who is easily overlooked and forgotten. 

I believe that besides my parents, no one knows when my birthday is, what I like to do outside of school, how I spend my evenings. Not even Katniss, who is the only person I occasionally consider as a friend, knows much about me beyond the obvious. If anyone wonders why I spend my lunch recess with Katniss, the answer is pretty simple. I’m desperately lonely all the time, but during lunch I choose not to be lonely, _alone_. I am not sure what Katniss is getting out of the bargain, but she has never complained, and neither has she tried to move away. We don’t question our arrangement, but keep each other company for reasons that neither of us has ever felt the need to fathom. 

My meeting this morning with Gale Hawthorne and Katniss reminded me however, that in everyone’s eyes I’m also Madge Undersee, the Town girl who never needs to take tesserae, and whose odds of getting reaped are next to non-existent. Gale made no effort to hide his disdain for me, and of course, I can’t blame him for resenting me. I know that I am seen by all as being the most privileged girl within Reaping age, and perhaps even beyond it, in District 12. The effect of his words, however, only serve to stress into me the fact that I am also Madge Undersee, the rich, plainish girl with a forever unrequited crush on a handsome miner’s son. My only comfort is that, at least, this state of affairs is known only to me.

The irony is that there is a great chance that today Gale Hawthorne might be proven wrong. I stand in the square in front of the Justice Building, the blazing sun doing nothing to warm the cold sweat that is making me shiver in this August afternoon. I haven’t slept in two days, ever since that night when, as I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water I overheard a conversation from behind the door of my father’s study. 

…

“What do you mean there are going to be surprises?” he had asked, his voice etched with an emotion that seemed to range between suspicion and fear.

“I’m telling you Mayor Undersee, I don’t know the details,” a female voice had replied. “All I know is that there is some tension in 8 and 11, and informed sources have told me that the Capitol wants to issue a reminder to all districts during this year’s Reaping.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, and so did the accent, but I failed to recognise who the speaker was at that time. 

My father had paused before asking the obvious question. “What sort of reminder?”

“The Capitol feels that the wealthier classes from all Districts are feeling safe, and that the tessarae system might be backfiring in this respect. President Snow has noticed that the Tributes from the outlying areas have been predominantly from the poorer classes, who in their destitution are always somehow kept under control,” the woman explained. There was silence in the room and I moved my head closer to the door. “From what I’ve heard, this year’s Tribute will not fall under the usual range.”

The implications of those words were very clear to me as soon as they had left the woman’s mouth. The “usual range” of Tributes from the outlying Districts was predominantly made up of 16-18 year olds from the poorer areas; in our case, obviously the Seam. 

What this woman had meant was that this year, the Tributes would be young and/or relatively wealthy. The odds of me being reaped, as a warning to any rebellious District Mayors, were suddenly very much against my favour. I heard steps coming to study door and I leaped up the stairs, peaking through the banisters to see who the woman could possibly be, managing to stop myself from gasping with difficulty. 

The woman had short brown hair, tired eyes and a pasty complexion, and sported a slight tremor in her hands and an unsteady gait. However, her profile was unmistakable. On the eve of what would possibly be the Reaping that took my life, I saw for the first, and probably only, time the exposed, undisguised individual that made up the real Effie Trinket. 

…

The Effie I see on stage, however, as she looks smugly at all of us in her pink wig and ostentatious suit, is the one that everyone knows, dreads and loathes. The tremor from her hands is gone, and her steps are strong and balanced in her ridiculously high heels. My father gives his speech, playing his role of loyal Mayor to near perfection as he speaks of District 12’s achievements in the past year, and thanks the Capitol for its unwavering support in providing for our needs. No one can possibly tell that Mayor Undersee is dreading this year’s Reaping, except for me. With Mama’s absence in my life, I’ve always been particularly close to my Father, even though we are not much alike in character. I’m shy and withdrawn, while he has the charisma and personality of a politician. The one thing that brings us together, however, is the ability to conceal our feelings, whether these happen to be general feelings of inadequacy, like in my case, or feelings of guilt, distrust and _fear_ , like he is feeling now. His hand clutches the microphone in a way that it has never done before, and his eyes keep darting to me whenever he mentions how proud he is of District 12’s young people, and how we will be all behind them in our support from the minute our name is called. 

_We both know it’s going to be me_. 

I look around, searching for familiar faces, wishing them silent goodbyes that they will not even realise that they are receiving. I see Katniss, looking worried and searching for her sister with her eyes, and glance at Gale who is looking at her, with a resigned look on his face as he is probably sending her his goodbye as well. His brother Rory trembles in fear, while Vick, holding tight to his mother, is already fighting back tears. I turn my head back to Effie as she dips her hand in the Reaping bowl, wretched in the knowledge that I have no one, _no one_ , besides my parents who will really miss me. I clutch at the Mockingjay Pin that I wear for every Reaping and whisper Aunt May’s name in a superstitious mantra that has so far kept me safe, holding my breath as I wait for Effie Trinket to call out my name. 

I’m not sure what exactly happens in the next few minutes except that I could have never possibly imagined that I could experience so many different emotions in such close succession. The minute Primrose Everdeen’s name is called out I actually double over and utter a cry of relief that is far too loud. Seconds later my cry is followed by a gasp of dismay and disbelief upon hearing Katniss screamed offer to volunteer. I am still stunned when I hear Effie calling out Peeta Mellark’s name, and this where I really lose it.

I realise that it is not me who was chosen to give a warning to the restless Districts. It was meant to be Primrose, a twelve-year-old girl at her first Reaping, with her one slip amongst the thousands, and Peeta the sweet sixteen-year-old son of the Baker, the merchant who feeds the district, and whose sons probably never had to resort to the Tessarae system. The message is clear – there is no way anyone can be safe from the whims of the Capitol. Seam or Merchant, hungry or fed, we are all just a game in the Capitol’s hunger for dominion and repression. 

I look at our District’s Tributes in dismay, willing myself to accept that I’m losing my only friend. I don’t know Peeta very well, though I see him often hanging around in close range whenever I’m with Katniss. I have always found him cute, and his obvious infatuation with my friend endeared him even more to me, seeing my similar state of mind with respect to Gale. I cannot even start to imagine what must be going on through his mind at the moment, as Effie enthusiastically asks them to shake hands. She plays her role to perfection, so well in fact, that I find myself wondering whether what happened two nights ago had been in fact just a dream. 

My father gathers me into his arms and buries his face in my hair, confirming to me without a doubt the very real fears he had for my life. “I’m safe Daddy,” I whisper, “I’m safe for another year…”. He nods and holds me tight before releasing me to deal with “official business”, namely that of registering formally the tributes and setting up a fund for funeral arrangements for the families that fail the means test. With this system, and to add insult to injury, the Mellarks will probably have to pay for their own son’s funeral after he is killed for the enjoyment of the Capitol citizens. 

I make my way inside the Justice Building and wait outside the room where I know that the Female Tributes are led. The door in front of me opens, and I see Mrs Mellark walk out of the Male Tributes’ room, impassive and tight-lipped, her rapid blinking being the only visible reaction to her son’s Reaping. Naan Mellark, however is dragging a hysterical Barley out of the room behind her. The middle Mellark boy cannot even hold himself on his feet and clutches at his pale and grim faced brother as he sobs uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry!” he wails, “I’m just a coward, I’m sorry, I killed him! I killed him!” 

I can see Peeta from inside the room rushing to the door and calling out to him. “No one expected you to volunteer, Barley, no one!” he tried to reassure him. He is right, no one could have possibly expected eighteen-year-old Barley, at his last Reaping and after enduring the six years of terror that Panem kids go through, to sacrifice his life for his younger brother. No one, _no one_ , could be possibly expected to do it. 

Well, except for Katniss Everdeen apparently. I can understand how Barley must feel, how in the one occasion where he was called to volunteer for his brother, Katniss had to go and raise the bar for all siblings in Panem. Barley will not be seen as the unfortunate young man who lost his brother to the Hunger Games, but as the strong eighteen-year-old wrestler who could have taken his younger brother’s place, just as the girl from the Seam had done. The fact that he would have almost certainly died in the arena would be conveniently ignored or glossed upon. 

I realise that the real atrocity of the Games is this, when young kids are placed in this impossible situation, brother against brother, with the full knowledge that the only way to save the other, is to sacrifice yourself. As I look at Barley’s crazed face, I wonder how he will possibly live with the guilt of not having volunteered for Peeta. In fact, were it not for the fact that Peeta was actually going to die in the coming weeks, I would actually resort to thinking of Barley as _unlucky_. 

The door opens behind me and, to my amazement, Mr Mellark comes rushing out from next to Katniss and pushes through the Peacemakers to storm into the room where Peeta is still standing helplessly, next to the door. I see him fall into his father’s arms and weep helplessly before the latter ushers him back into the room whispering frantically into his ear. Peeta nods as he buries his head into his shoulder, and I tear my gaze away with an effort. The least I can do is allow my classmate to come to terms with his death sentence in the arms of his father with some privacy. 

My visit to Katniss is brief. Unlike Peeta, she is handling the Reaping with silent decorum, although I have to swallow a lump in my throat when I see her absently clutching a bag full of Mr Mellark’s cookies. The thought of Peeta’s father handing her that gift, fulling knowing that she and his youngest son will be tasked with killing each other makes me almost lose it completely. She is geniunely touched and surprised to see me, and on an unplanned whim, I decide to give her my Aunt Maysilee’s Mockingjay Pin. I figure that she needs my lucky charm more than I do at the moment. I have two Reapings left, and at least another year to live. For now I consider that to be enough.

I bid Katniss farewell and as I look closely at the features of the only person who I could possibly consider a friend, I try to prepare myself for the fact that I will probably never see her again alive in District 12. While I walk out of the Justice Building, I realise that I’m not the only person who is resigned to Katniss’ death. Gale Hawthorne is crouched by the wall, tears streaming down his face as he stares blankly into space. I am not sure how I get the courage to move towards him. I guess surviving a Reaping and losing your friend to it at the same time leads to a re-organisation of priorities. As I crouch next to him, he turns to look at me, his face a mixture of resentment and helplessness.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “I think it should have been me.” Little does he know how true my words were.

“It shouldn’t have been anyone,” he spits out angrily. “I’ve had enough Madge, enough of this,” he adds, as he leans the back of his head to the hard wall, trying to swallow his tears.

“Don’t say these things here, Gale,” I warn hastily, “not with all the Peacekeepers around!”

He nods and looks at me, his expression unreadable. This is the longest conversation we have ever had, and chest is clenching so hard round my heart that it pushes all thoughts about the Reaping, Katniss and Peeta away. All I know is that I’m sitting next to Gale Hawthorne, and we are _talking_. 

_No wonder I’m alone_ , I think with an internal wince. _I’m a horrible friend_.

Unlike me, Gale has obviously not allowed his thoughts to stray far from today’s events. “She’s not coming back, is she?” he whispers, as he looks at me for the reassurance that I can’t give him.

I turn my head away as I see Effie Tricket hurriedly escorting Katniss and Peeta to the car that will take them to the train station. Peeta’s eyes are red rimmed from the tears he shed in the Justice Building, but Katniss still seems to be unmoved by the whole situation. I catch Effie and my father sharing one look, and the theatrical demeanour of the Capitol escort melts for one quick second to show a glimpse of the exhausted, disillusioned woman I saw at our house two nights ago. I might have been spared this year, but nevertheless, she is still knowingly leading another two innocent kids to certain death. “No, Gale,” I murmur back, “I don’t think so.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, and without thinking, I find myself grasping his hand gently. I expect him to snatch it away from my grasp, but he seems to be too shellshocked to offer much resistance. In fact, I nearly gasp when I feel him tightening his grip slightly.

I am Madge Undersee, a terrible friend who is turning a tragedy into her advantage. 

I might even become Madge Undersee, Gale Hawthorne’s second choice. The mediocre replacement of Katniss Everdeen. His afterthought.

As I look at his broken eyes, however, I know that with _that_ description of myself, I could happily learn to live.


	6. Their Interviewer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I tried to tackle another question that I asked when reading the books – was it a coincidence that Caesar Flickerman asked the question that set the whole story off? I would like to think not … I hope you enjoy this chapter!

My interview with Seneca Crane is over. The lights are out, the cameras are off, and the audience has long since deserted the studio. My face has been wiped clean from the dramatic make-up that has become an integral part of my act. I know that I should feel relieved at being free from my necessary disguise, had not my body been rendered completely numb in the last two decades by the countless invasive procedures that have kept me from aging, or at this point, even from dying. 

I’m older than anyone could possibly imagine, even though it is not so difficult to wonder how for the past forty-five years I have been hosting the Hunger Games without aging one day. I’ve been sliced open countless of times, given skin grafts, polishings, injections and implants to retain my ageless appearance and to ensure continuity in this pageant. There can be no Hunger Games without Caesar Flickerman, and the price I have had to pay for carrying out my job flawlessly was the near complete obliteration of my sense of touch, taste and smell, and an almost perfectly preserved body that is successfully hiding the fact that inside I am slowly, inevitably, and literally dying.

There is so much one can do to keep a heart beating, a lung breathing and a liver… _living_ , even if you are from the Capitol, and the telltale signs of my slow decline have been there of a while. The irregular heartbeats, the erratic trembling of limbs, the coughs that are always taking longer to heal…It takes all my energy to host the Hunger Games for the three or four weeks of continuous showing with my trademark enthusiasm, and it is a very badly kept secret that I spend the following eleven months in near to complete solitude in my mansion on the outskirts of the Capitol, refusing even the most basic social interaction with anyone except the medical team that has practically set up home there. What is instead an extremely well kept secret is that my physical deterioration (and subsequent partial regeneration) is not the only thing that turns me into a hermit for the best part of the year.

I hate the Hunger Games. I hate the Capitol for sending other people’s children to their slaughter. I hate my fellow Capitol citizens for allowing themselves to become genetically engineered imbeciles who have been so desensitized by the vacant lives that they are made to lead that they are unable to see beyond the light, glamour and show that I so masterfully provide for them. Most of all, I hate myself for failing, year after year, to stop the show that has taken over my life, and has so far kept me from the release of death. 

I do not consider myself to be any different from those around me, though I do pride myself on being somewhat smarter than that first class moron, Seneca Crane. I was just as bad as they were, when forty-five years ago, I charmed my way through the audition to host the Hunger Games as a bright, young TV Host in his early days. I was ecstatic for the first few years, and oblivious to the notion that the kids I was interviewing were actually the same ones who would be eviscerating each other on live television just a few days later. It was only after ten years or so, that I started to look at them, _really look at them_. It was then that I started to notice the thin layer of nervous moisture on the upper lips of the most arrogant of Careers, the uneasy twitch of the self assured underdogs, the terror, often mistaken for negative attitude, of the Tributes of the outlying Districts. I still ignored the gnawing awakening of my conscience for a long time however, and let first indifference, and then resignation, take over. 

There was nothing I could do, the Capitol had decreed it so. The Districts had to be reminded not to get out of line again. So I laughed and made people laugh. The Capitol wanted an act, so I performed and innocents died with my inane words echoing in their ears. I am not sure when resignation gave way to insufference. It was so long ago that I can’t remember, but it might have perhaps been during the second Quarter Quell. What I can pinpoint exactly, however, is the moment when insufference turned into horror. This was when the twelve-year-old from 8 won the 63rd edition. He was a sweet, shy boy that all bookmakers had written off immediately, but he had gone to win the Games that year by burning alive the towering Career who he had managed to trap in a snare set up by the usual industrious Tribute from 11. The look on the kid’s face as he looked indifferently at the burning Tribute still haunts my dreams occasionally, even when I try to drug myself into oblivion. That was the only year that we managed to kill all the twenty-four contestants. The winner committed suicide immediately after the Crowning Ceremony. 

Annie Cresta’s mental breakdown and ensuing catatonia had then turned my horror into rage, and this is where I am now, raging and hating the Games and desperately trying to find a way to stop them. For the past years, I have wracked my brains trying to find something to cling to, some way to turn the tide, _to make them stop watching_. I have suggested arenas that were atrocious, costumes that accentuated the innocence of the younger ones, and I tried, time and time again, to downplay as much as I could the vicious persona of the Careers. Nothing worked however, nothing seemed to get through the blood tinted glasses of the masses. This year however, I have hope. I think I have something to work with, and this faint stirring of hope has the name of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark from District 12. 

Ironically enough, this year’s edition, the 74th, kicked off rather ominously. For the past few months there have been news of discontent in some Districts, nothing too alarming of course, but enough to be noticeable, and to cause an emergency meeting in the presence of President Snow. It had become rather clear to him that the wealthier classes, especially in the outlying Districts, were starting to feel safe and immune from the Reapings, a state of affairs that led him to decide that it was time to remind Panem that no one should have the presumption to believe oneself free from the clutches of the Capitol. A list of Tributes was drawn up, including a lame boy, a Mayor’s son, two twelve-year girls, and countless of merchant children who had never, or hardly ever, made use of the tessarae system. 

I cannot say that I was shocked. Nothing really shocks me any longer – my inner contempt has bred so exponentionally that it drives out any other feeling that I can possibly conjure. In fact, having a list of Tributes which is set prior to the Reaping actually works in my favour, since it gives me more time to set the stage for the final interview, gathering information about each Tribute, based on the mandatory file that the District Escort is made to request from each Head Peacekeeper, and on the frantic notes that I ask my assistants to gather during the Training Days. 

The system I have established throughout my years as Host is pretty straightforward. Everyone assumes that my interviews go so swimmingly well just because I’m amazing in front of the camera and an expert in making my guests feel at ease. Well, the latter part is true, but only because I would have spent the two weeks preceding such interview rehearsing over and over again with hologramed images of the Tributes and perfecting the questions and answers based on their presumed reactions. My team constantly updates the details in the holograms, taking note of mannerisms, tempers and reactions. Having the details of the Tributes from weeks before thus gave us so much more to work with, and at the time the decision was taken, it provided me with hope that I would be able to find an angle that might actually work. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so excited about it I wouldn’t have unknowingly disclosed President Snow’s decision in front of Effie Trinket, but there is not much to do about that now. Also, she’s such a moron that she problably did not even understand a word I said, let alone processed it under her feathers. 

Katniss Everdeen, District 12 Female, caused me some problems with her unprecedented and certainly unexpected, volunteering. I had already made some headway in the preparation of my interview with her sister, and I suddenly found myself having to restart from zero. The fact that Katniss seems to have the charisma of a boiled clam certainly did not do seem very encouraging to me. In fact, as I watched the Reaping recordings over and over again, I was quite at a loss as to what to do with her.

Peeta Mellark, her District partner, was from the beginning a far, far easier project. His personal file says that he is easy-going, smart and a generally friendly, charming lad. The fact that he is an extremely pleasant looking chap definitely works in his favour as well. Even before his arrival at the Capitol I had already bantered with his hologramed self countless of times, with each interview bringing an improvement on the last as more and more data arrived from his District and was fed into his file. He actually reminds me of a guileless, trustworthy, open version of myself. Caesar Improved, so to speak. 

It was obvious from the start that Peeta was going to be my choice this year. He is the one I am banking on to try and make an impact, but I know that even his jokes and charm will not be enough to stir any negative feelings towards the Games. If anything, it might even lead to the Capitol Citizens seeing him as a new hero, the successor to Finnick O’Dair, another success story of the Hunger Games. With each virtual interview I could feel that there was something that was missing, something that seemed to be just beyond my grasp…

And I was lucky enough to have found the missing link during the presentation of the Tributes. On the night, while everyone is mesmerized by Katniss (she seems on fire … the Girl on Fire. I’m bloody brilliant!), I am drawn without knowing to the calm steadiness of her partner. He holds her hand tightly, slightly overwhelmed but still dazzling in his understated way. What draws me to him however, is the unguarded, reckless look of adoration he gives the girl as their chariot rushes in front of the frantic crowd.

This is it. This is what I have been looking for.

“Call Haymitch Abernathy,” I whisper to my personal assistant, Callista.“Tell him to call me after the presentation, using the secure line,” I add, rather unnecessarily. Haymitch and I have spoken on this line often enough, and always in vain, but this time, I am optimistic. Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen might just be the spark I need to ignite the fire. 

For the first time in many years, I decide that I am also going to be present for the Training Day. This year, I’m going to be the one taking down notes. 

…

My interview with Katniss goes much better than I expected, but I take no credit for that. All my efforts to engage Katniss were headed towards the forecasted disaster had it not been for Cinna’s spectacular trick with her dress. Her volunteering for her sister would have made a moving story, had it not been for her difficulty to open up and engage the audience.

Peeta, on the other hand, wins everyone from the get go. His reactions to my questions are flawless, and I note with satisfaction that they are surprisingly similar to those provided by his hologramed projection, but his jokes about the showers floor me anyway. This boy is definitely wasted in his father’s bakery. Had he been a Capitol Citizen, he would have been very much on his way towards taking my place. 

The audience hangs on to every word he utters, and engages with him on every count. He reacts confidently, his only sign of discomfort being the slight tapping of his foot and the almost imperceptible drumming of his fingers against the seat. He is nervous, and from what I know about him, probably disgusted at the show, but his survival instincts seem to overcome any distaste he must be feeling. He has understood the way to play this game. 

Halfway through the interview, I decide that the time has come to set the flame. _This is it_. I think to myself and change the mood into one of confidentiality, intimacy even, as if Peeta and I were friends.

“So tell me Peeta,” I begin as I look at him carefully, “is there a special girl back home?”

The boy hesitates, and replies with a half hearted shake of the head.

_Come on boy. This is not the time to act coy. Easy Caesar … don’t scare him. Lead him to it …_

“Handsome lad like you,” I insist with my most appealing smile, “there must be some special girl. Come on, what’s her name?”

Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl, I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember,” he replies as he squirms uncomfortably. “But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the Reaping.”

I fight the urge to jump in my seat. _That’s it. Here we go…_

“Here’s what you do,” I tell him conspirationally. “You win, you go home. She can’t turn you down then, eh?”

Peeta glances sadly at the audience, who has gone completely silent. “I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning … won’t help in my case,” he replies in a low voice.

_Come on lad … out with it._

“Why ever not?” I reply, pretending to be mystified. I could have heard a pin drop in the auditorium. 

The boy blushes beet red and stammers. “Because … because … she came here with me.”

Before I can help myself, I sit back with satisfaction and watch the crowd gasp in sympathy. I catch sight of a young man in the front row, his green fringe almost, but not quite covering his eyes, as he automatically reaches for his girlfriend’s hand and looks at Peeta with an expression that I have never seen before in a Hunger Games audience. This young Capitol lad is actually… relating to Peeta. For the first time ever, a Tribute is finally being seen as a fellow human being.

I close my eyes and breathe in before I continue my charade.

_I’ve done my part Abernathy. Now it’s up to you._


	7. Their Rival Tribute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, I do apologise for the delay in updating. I realised that I was making some silly mistakes due to the fact that until now I had been writing from memory, and so I decided to reread the first book before attempting this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading and encouraging me to go on! I will post my next chapter as I reread Catching Fire to try and keep it all as accurate as possible :) xx

I always imagined the Hunger Games to be scary, bloody, painful even. From all my years spent as a viewer I was also aware that the arena could be scorching hot, or freezing cold, dry or flooded, but I was confident at my Reaping that somehow I would be able to handle all types of scenarios conjured by the Gamemakers. What I never predicted, however, was the fact that the Hunger Games could be so horribly and hauntingly _lonely_.

Keeping to myself has been my strategy from the start. Fly solo, don’t make friends, contacts or allies. Survive and let the rest do the killing. My main aim has always been to go back home to District 5, to my family and to my friends. I wonder if they are following me, whether they still recognise me in the aloof, sly and crafty persona I have created for myself in the interview with Caesar Flickerman. In all honesty, I think all of my loved ones back home must be rather puzzled at what I seem to have become in the few weeks that I have been away from them. I _am_ smart, have always been, but I’m also lively, funny and affectionate, diametrically opposed to what the District 5 Female Tribute has shown herself to be so far.

During our Training Days, I once heard Female 12, who I now know is called Katniss, murmuring “out of the way _Foxface_ ” when I had unintentionally stepped in her knife throwing trajectory. It was then that I realised that maybe I wasn’t doing such a bad job in keeping everyone at arm’s length. Foxface suits me fine as a name – no one wants to mix with a fox. Which works fine for me. I am definitely not at the Capitol to make friends. 

Of course, the fact that all of us Tributes have been overshadowed by District 12’s love-show certainly didn’t make any of us very keen to be chummy with the two Tributes or even with each other. More than ever, this year’s Hunger Games have been turned into a battle of backstabbing, and it does not take much to see that even the Career’s alliance, forged during the first day of training is just about as strong as a frayed thread. What is perhaps different this year is that the 1s, 2s and the 4s are more than ever fixated on one main goal, Female 12, obviously fuelled by her unexpected display at the Presentation Ceremony, where with her flames she relegated us all to a pathetic show of fancy dress costumes. 

Male 12, _Peeta_ , I correct myself with a half smile that I do not hide, as I trudge along the muddy forest path, exhausted and hungry, had not caused such a negative reaction during training, but then again, how could he? He was the only Tribute who whispered good morning to everyone, and seemed actually hurt by the glares he received in return, as if he was really wondering why everyone was being so nasty to each other without reason. Compared to his sullen companion, he always seemed completely harmless, one of the first to probably end up slain at the Cornucopia, a mere accessory to his fellow Tribute. His declaration of love during the interview the night before the opening of the Games might have surprised the audience, and Female 12 herself, but it was no real shock to me. From what I suspect, it was no shock to the more perceptive of the other Tributes either. In fact, his declaration was just the final proof that the Careers had needed to categorise him as easy meat, a non-entity that had no chance to win.

Yet, Peeta Mellark is now in the final four, together with me, Cato and Katniss. I am glad he made it this far, but I hope that he is killed soon. I don’t want to be the one to kill him.

I am so lonely though, so tired, hungry and desperately, excruciatingly lonely. I lost count of how many days I have spent in the arena, foraging and stealing food, keeping up my strategy of being a spectator in the shadows, and scavenging what the other tributes leave behind following their death. Ironically, the only time I actively sought to attack a Tribute was on the first day, just after escaping the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. It had been a stupid move, and it would have definitely cost me my life in the most humiliating of ways had the Tribute I attacked not been Peeta. 

That is a scene that I have constantly replayed over and over my mind in the past days. It gives me comfort in the eerie silence that has become part of my existence since my last conversation with Peeta. It is so quiet in the arena that all the voices of the people I have loved throughout my life are vanishing from my memory. I can’t remember whether it is my friend Stella whose voice is squeaky and high, or whether that voice is that of my cousin Cassopeia. I think my brother’s voice had started to break just before my Reaping, but I am not really sure anymore. I’m not certain or aware of anything anymore, other than my solitude, exhaustion and hunger, but all I know is that the one voice that I can clearly hear in my mind is that of Peeta Mellark and I can’t let go of how gentle it sounded when he decided to spare my life and let me go.

_It all happens on the first day, not more than an hour after I had fled from the Cornucopia, and even before the cannons starting announcing the fallen. I am running around in circles within a kilometre from the scene of the bloodbath, knowing from past Hunger Games that with the lull that follows the end of the first session of random killings, there comes also a steady supply of food that might keep me alive for as long as it takes for the rest of the Tributes to slay each other. My plan is to be the vulture of the group, circling the spoils until I can swoop on them. What I have not envisaged however, is that my fellow Tribute, Orion, would be caught in a vicious hand to hand fight with one of the Careers, the boy from District 4, in a clearing a few hundred metres away from the Cornucopia. I slouch, hidden in the bushes, rooted to my hiding place as I see him swinging his knife frantically at the Career. I am not sure exactly how it happens, but I know that after a few minutes, Orion staggers to the ground, his neck bent backwards at a horrifying angle, and Male 4 falls to his knees, with a knife stuck in his abdomen. At that same moment Peeta (or Male 12, as I knew him at the time) comes stumbling into the clearing and stops in mid stride, taking in the scene in horror._

_“Shit, shit, shit!” he cries repeatedly as he lays the Career to the ground, looking at his wound helplessly. In response I see the boy cough up blood and stare at him blankly before letting go. It is with this final death that the cannons start their sombre announcement. I lose count after eight. There are too many, and I am too focused on the apologetic look on Peeta’s face as he slowly pulls out the knife from the boy’s body to actually count them all. Damn it, that knife could have come in handy. Just then, a loud noise caused crashing branches announces the arrival of the remaining five Careers, who stop abruptly as they take in the scene with the two dead boys, and stare at Peeta who is still holding the knife in his hand._

_I see District 2 Male gaping at him in disbelief. “Was this you 12?” he demands._

_Peeta frowns for a split second before standing up straight and gripping the knife. I hold my breath and burrow myself deeper into the bushes. I am not too keen to be seen at this very moment. “What do you think Cato? Of course it was me,” he replies airily. I am surprised that Peeta remembers Male 2’s name._

_Cato actually looks impressed. “Well who would have thought?” he sneered, “there is more to you than being in love with that dark tramp from your district!”_

_Peeta bristles. “Don’t speak about her like that,” he retorts, looking nothing like the decent lad I had sometimes found myself looking at during the training._

_“Lover Boy, I don’t think you’re in much of a position to tell me what to do or not do,” Cato retorts looking amused. “We are five against one, do you really think you stand a chance?”_

_“I am sure I don’t, but I do hope to take a couple of you with me. You wouldn’t be my first kill, as you can clearly see.” I notice that Peeta is trembling ever so slightly, but it is amazing how much steady and fearless his voice seems to be._

_Cato moves towards him, walking round the bodies of the slain boys and whistling softly. “Yes, I can see that,” he replies, “and I’m impressed. You seem to be both capable with a sword and with your bare hands.” Peeta stays silent, looking at him suspiciously. “Where is your lady?” continues Cato, “did she run away to save herself?”_

_“Our strategy is no concern of yours,” Peeta growls, “only one of us will come out from here, and we are both aware of it.”_

_“Aha! So you decided to save yourself? You’re not as stupid as you made yourself sound then, well done,” pipes in the District 1 Male, whose presence, as well as that of the the girls from 1, 2 and 4, I had completely forgotten about. Only then I realise in what dire situation I have managed to find myself in. I try to limit my breathing as much as possible._

_“Listen 12,” says Cato, motioning to 1 to say quiet. “Lead me to your girlfriend, and I will not kill you today. After I kill her, we’ll fight it out, you and me, fair and square, what do you say?”_

_Peeta stares at him incredulously. “You’re willing to let me go, just so that you may find Katniss? What is this obsession of yours with her?” he asks._

_Cato towers over him, but the latter does not seem to be very concerned. “No need to be jealous Lover Boy,” he replies, “I just want to be the one to kill her. I want to be the one who kills the Tribute that scored an eleven. Do you know where she is? Can you lead me to her? I won’t be making this offer another time.”_

_Peeta does not hesitate. “I don’t know where she is, but I know how she thinks, and I know what kind of game she will be playing. I will lead you to her,” he replies extending his hand. “Then it will be me and you, fighting till the end, fair and square.”_

If I weren’t so shocked at this turn of events, I would have felt quite honoured at being the only Tribute in the Hunger Games to have ever witnessed an alliance between the Career Districts and a Tribute from District 12. However, all I could feel at the time was disappointment at how Peeta Mellark had managed to dupe us all. 

Not surprisingly however, it did not take me too long to discover that my initial impression of his true nature had not been too far off the mark. Later that same day, as the sun starting setting and my random hiking in the forest brought nothing to my stomach except for some wild berries, I found myself once again in close vicinity to the same group. Cato and the other Careers were setting up camp and distributing food that was obviously coming from the Cornucopia, and I was glad I had followed the instinct that told me not to go back there until at least a few days had passed. I was surprised to see that Peeta was not with them, until I walked away to the stream just a handful of metres away and saw him there, hidden by the bushes, sitting by the water in silence, skinning a rabbit. 

_My mouth waters as I see the plump legs of the rabbit, and I hope that the grumbling of my stomach does not alert him as I stare at him, silently willing myself to find the will to attack him. I pick up a rock and move towards him, trying to be as stealthy as possible as I raise it above my head, swallowing hard before I aim it to the back of his head. I hardly manage to draw a breath before he turns around and pins me to the ground, his large, surprisingly warm hand covering my mouth._

_“Don’t scream!” he whispers frantically, “don’t scream, they’ll hear you. Stop moving, I am not going to hurt you,” he adds reassuringly._

_I raise my eyes in disbelief, but stop squirming under him and keep silent._

_“Will you be quiet?” he asks. I nod and he removes his hand. “Foolish girl, did you really think you could kill anyone of us with that method?” he asks._

_I glare at him defiantly._

_“You should thank your lucky stars that it was me, and not Cato, who was here when you decided to pull this stunt,” he continues wryly. “Speaking of stars, it’s Andromeda isn’t it? Andromeda Finch?”_

_I gape at him. “How – how do you remember?” I ask softly._

_“Of course I remember, we trained together for three days,” he scoffs, and then smiles a bit sadly when he sees me duck my face in embarrassment. “I guess it’s not that obvious then,” he continues, “the name’s Peeta Mellark. Now go.”_

_“You’re really not going to kill me then, Peeta?” I ask. What game is this boy playing?_

_He shakes his head in reply. “You won’t be dying at my own hand,” he replies gently, “now run before the others notice you!”_

_I turn and start running away before I stop abruptly and turn again to him. “This alliance, it’s all an act isn’t it? You really love her don’t you?” I need to hear it. I need to hear that one can still love in the Hunger Games._

_He stares at me seriously, as if mulling whether to answer the question or not. “Yes,” he replies, “to both questions.” We smile at each other and I run away. I don’t realise at this point that Peeta is the last person to whom I will ever speak to._

Following the destruction of the food pyramid at the Cornucopia (how could have anyone missed that the area was mined? It was obvious!), I survive by scavenging some vital items from behind the dead tributes. A sleeping bag, an extra pair of socks, a water flask, some dried fruit…This strategy keeps me alive, but barely, and the pangs of hunger start taking over all of my thoughts. Sometimes I chew on pebbles pretending that they are sweets and in my hunger induced delirium, I relive scenes of District 5, back in my family’s tiny house sharing dinner with my parents and siblings. My father is a Power Plant engineer, and he makes enough money to ensure that we are just about fed, although not rich by any possible stretch of imagination. We are also one of the few families in the district that are allowed to keep a piano, an instrument which my family inherited from generations back, and at night, huddled in my sleeping bag as I shiver in the cold, I pretend to play noiselessly strumming my fingers on the synthetic fibres of the sleeping bag, drawing comfort from the music that only I can hear in my mind. For some strange reason there is always Peeta Mellark sitting next to me, smiling at me, and congratulating me on my playing. He knows my name. I remember the way he says Andromeda, with a slight pronunciation of the “e” that makes it sound even better. Every night I steel myself against seeing his name among the fallen tributes and I let out my breath only when I see that he is not among the dead. Before falling asleep I snuggle in my sleeping bag and try to warm myself with thoughts of the blonde Tribute with the gentle smile. 

By the time the Gamemakers announce the feast at the Cornucopia I am in a hunger induced haze. The wild fruit and mushrooms that I am surviving upon are making me sick, and the more I eat of them the more I throw up. I drag myself to the horn at night, playing to my advantage the fact that there are just so few of us left, and I hide inside, willing myself to survive the night until I receive the package. In fact, that package keeps me going for another couple of days; it is full of much needed carbohydrates and protein which give me a boost of energy and a real dose of hope. Of course once my hunger is satiated, I find myself having to deal with the rain, which is something I am totally unprepared for. The rain pours down for days, and once again I find myself with an empty stomach and a desperate need for food. 

Thresh is killed during the storms, and it comes down to me Peeta, Cato and Katniss. I finally get a glimpse of him on the morning after the rain stops. He’s traipsing around the forest, with a small smile on his lips, looking thinner, but in a much better shape than I am, and I wonder if he managed to survive by himself, seeing that his alliance with the Careers obviously ended. I also wonder whether he had managed to find Katniss, especially in view of the rule change, a move that is so obviously set up to make them win. He’s gathering some dark berries, which I don’t seem to have seen around. They glisten in the sun, full of juice, and I wonder whether they might make me sick, like the other fruit that I had lived on in the past week. Then I see Peeta drop some more on his jacket, together with some cheese and bread, and I know that I can trust him.

As soon as he is out of sight I scramble to where he has laid out the food, nibble at some cheese, and grab a fistful of berries. Peeta has once again saved my life.

I bite into the berries, relishing their blissful taste, before I hear the cannon. My last thought before oblivion is _betrayal_.


	8. His Other Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update. Besides writing two one-shots in the meantime, I have found Catching Fire to be much more complex to write about that The Hunger Games! I’m determined to finish this story but it will take me a bit longer than anticipated to write :). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter…the Mellark brothers hold a very special place in my heart!

I see the train approaching, a tiny dark blob in the horizon that in a few minutes will bring back my brother to District 12. Disappearing amongst the cheering crowd is not even an option, since the organisers of the welcome event thought it fit to separate both familes of the Victors from the rest of the District 12 folk by a barrier. So it happens that the Everdeens and their “cousins”, the Hawthornes, stand now side by side with the Mellarks; Seam and Merchant, a mix of complexions, wealth and temperament united in their relief and incredulity at being able to welcome both their children back. As the train approaches, I shrink closer to my brother, and suddenly I feel the button on my sleeve, the one I have been nervously tugging all day, loosen up and fall to the ground. I curse at my carelessness, thinking that once again, my brother will have to make do with clothes that _never_ reach him intact. In fact, I can now add a missing button to the list of ways in which I have failed Peeta. It’s not that he would mind of course, my younger brother is used to having to patch up his clothes once he inherits them from me. He never complains, not even when he has to go to school with mismatched buttons or with frayed trousers. He has always been practical, a problem solver who prefers to grin and mend then to complain. My little brother has always taken the same approach even with regard to our mess of a family, taking on the role of the steady one, always ready to diffuse the tension with a joke or a compliment aimed at our mother, just at the right moment. He smiles, obeys and causes no trouble, while always going out of his own way to try to please.

At the same time, our little rebel falls in love with a Seam Girl, feeds her, wins the Hunger Games and resolutely remains alive when everyone else expects him to die.

I stare at the tiny hole which, up until a few minutes ago, held the button of my shirt, and blink rapidly, trying to keep my tears at bay. Naan nudges me roughly and glares at me. “Now what the hell is the matter?” he hisses in a poor attempt at whispering. 

“The button,” I gulp back, “I ruined the shirt for Peeta.”

My older brother stares at me. “Peeta doesn’t need your shirts anymore, Barley,” he retorts, “he’s a Victor now. He can buy his own damn clothes for the rest of his life!”

A Victor. My brother is a Victor, alive with no thanks to me. I don’t deserve to be a Victor’s brother. I don’t deserve to be here, welcoming back, after I had sent him off to die without moving a muscle. All of a sudden, I’m finding it difficult to breathe and I frantically look around me to try and find a way out of this platform, preferably an exit that can lead me away somewhere where I can wallow in my shame and loathing in peace. 

It’s not meant to be of course. In fact, my breathless scanning of the crowd causes me to lock eyes with Lilly Carter, who wordlessly pleads with me to reconsider, to take back the words I had told her weeks ago, to tell her once again that I loved her. Lilly had been the first girl I really kissed, my first love, my first everything and I had promised to marry her as soon as we were both out of our Reaping age. I broke that promise of course, because that is what I do. I break promises and destroy people because I’m a disloyal coward. The same night my brother was making his way on the train to the Capitol, I broke things off with Lilly. I didn’t deserve to be happy, not when I had sent Peeta to be slaughtered. 

I spent the whole Games alternating between sobbing in front of the television, clandestinely leaving bread at the Everdeen’s doorstep upon request from Dad, and staring blankly at Lilly’s house from across the road. I was not fit to help in the bakery, until Naan dragged me from my shirt collar, dressed me in my apron, and told me to _make some goddamn bread goddamnit_. That was the same day Peeta received his first kiss from Katniss, and also when Primrose Everdeen visited the bakery, thanked my father for the bread, and surprised me by hugging me tight. “I know how you feel,” she had whispered softly in my ear, “but they’re going to protect each other until they’re both home, and then you and I will have all our lives to make it up to them.”

I cannot remember if I had ever promised Peeta to be a good brother to him. If I hadn’t, then I definitely should have, because that is what he had always been to me, a younger, gentle, supportive boy whom I had failed in the only test life had given me to prove myself worthy of his love. I tear my eyes away from Lilly’s and turn back to Naan, wheezing loudly as I helplessly try to breathe.

“Naan, I don’t think I can –“

“You can and you will, you idiot,” he retorts angrily. “Today is about Peeta, this is his moment, and not yours to ruin, so pull yourself together, calm down and _shut the hell up_!” I stare at him, and nod meekly, and he seems to relent somewhat. “Listen, I know it’s tough for you,” he continues softly, “but he’s alive, he’s safe and he got his girl. It’s time for us to share his happiness and welcome him home.” 

His tone managed to do the impossible, and I draw my first real breath since we had arrived to the station and immediately calm down. _My brother is alive, safe and he got his girl_. 

I smile at the approaching train and allow myself to feel the almost forgotten thrill of excitement. I am the first to grab him in a tight hug as soon as he steps down from the train, and I sob my apology over and over again in his shoulder. I am not sure how long this lasts until Peeta pulls away, and gives me a sad smile. “I lost my leg, and you’re the one crying?! Get over yourself Barley!” he tells me, a shadow of his old self making an appearance. Before I can help it, I am beaming at him. Peeta is home, and all is going to be well. 

\---

All is not well. Not quite. I sense the change in my brother immediately. The trip from the station to our house is a whirlwind of interviews, cameras, microphones and staged welcomes. Peeta smiles, waves and charms the District, while Katniss looks pale, stricken even, as she clings to his hand, almost afraid to let him go. When Mrs Everdeen makes some sort of joke on her daughter being too young to have boyfriends, he moves away, letting go of Katniss’ hand and I see her start, reaching out for him for a second before stepping back, looking at him pleadingly.

This strange exchange should have perhaps given us an inkling that sometime was off with the whole situation, but we are all too relieved to see Peeta home to give much thought to anything else. 

The first bombshell comes during our first dinner, during which we steer clear from any topic dealing with the Games, Katniss, caves, trains and the Capitol, which does not give us much to talk about except the bakery and our new home at the Victor’s Village. Peeta has not spoken much since our reunion at the station, and I keep stealing glances at him which he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge. 

My heart sinks.

And it sinks even lower when he finally opens his mouth. “Dad, Mother, I was thinking that maybe you should not come with me to the Victor’s Village,” he announces quietly.

We all fall silent, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and hurt. He sits up straighter in his chair and clears his throat. “Of course, I will help you repair and rebuild this house if you need, but I think it would be best from to stay there alone, and continue to work at the bakery like before,” he adds. His tone betrays no hesitation whatsoever, and it’s obvious to me that he has probably thought about this during his trip back. 

Dad seems crushed, but does not object. When it comes to Peeta, my father does not object to anything that could give his youngest son any semblance of happiness. My brother leaves our home that same night. He never invites us to visit him at the Victor’s Village but comes to work at the bakery everyday, even though it is quite clear that with his winnings he can very easily choose to live a life of leisure. He keeps his promise, and in the weeks that follow the departure of the cameras, our rather rundown bakery receives new flooring, a new door, a fresh lick of paint and a brand new set of ovens. Peeta spends all his time there, painting the walls, hammering the floorboards and avoiding interaction with customers. Conspicuous in her absence is his girlfriend, who has yet to make an appearance after the first weeks of interviews and photoshoots come to an end. 

Katniss is not exactly a ray of joy. She is quiet, somewhat sullen and definitely not easy with her smiles, especially in between shoots. However, there is something about her, a obstinate kind of strength that can definitely be overwhelming sometimes. I have had a few opportunities to speak to her, one of them being during a photoshoot that showed me and Naan teaching her how to bake with Peeta. We had even joked together that day, and I realised that when she let herself go, my brother’s girlfriend was very easy to like.

However, I haven’t seen much of Katniss in the past weeks, and Peeta has become more and more withdrawn, seeking solitude even from his dearest friend Delly. One evening Mother passes a nasty remark on Katniss, and how she seems to have all but disappeared now that she does not need to act a part for the cameras and Peeta stands up and silently leaves the house, but not before calmly picking up a vase and smashing it angrily against the wall. “Don’t you ever dare to talk about Katniss again,” he warns us, and it takes a week for him to return to the bakery and a month before he can even acknowledge Mother’s presence again.

Things between us are still somewhat tense, not because of anything Peeta says or does, but mostly because I still find the need to walk on eggshells around him. One day I return to the bakery after some deliveries and find him deep in conversation with a tearful Lilly. As soon as she sees me, she starts and rushes out, and Peeta looks at me with an expression verging on pity. He tells me to walk home with him that day, and I feel a sense of dread entering his house for the first time. I don’t know what to expect, but to my relief, my brother’s house is clean, tidy, comfortable and definitely homey. 

“Cleaning and keeping everything tidy helps me remain sane,” he says in reply to my incredulous look. Peeta is a endless pit of goodness, but tidyness was never one of his top priorities. “If I have nothing to do, I think too much,” he explains.

I stare at him, the all too familiar feeling of remorse creeping down into my gut. “Peeta, I’m so sorry...”

He rolls his eyes, pours himself a glass of water and leans back against his kitchen counter. “Enough of that Barley, honestly. And what is this nonsense of you breaking off things with Lilly? When were you planning to tell us about it?”

I shake my head and flinch at his tone. “I broke off our engagement the day you ... left. I didn’t feel it was right for me to think of my wedding when you...” my voice trails off.

“When I what? When I went off to the Capitol to possibly die in the Games?” he finishes for me. “What does that have to do with you?”

I can’t believe that he seems geniunely puzzled. “I could have gone in your place, I could have volunteered instead of you, I could have –“

“Died instead of me? Don’t be absurd,” he scoffs back. “No one expected you to volunteer to go and die in the arena when you were lucky enough to not have been reaped. No one, not even me,” he adds looking at me seriously. When I remain silent, he takes a long drink of his water and adds softly, “I wouldn’t have done it, Barley, even though I do love you dearly.”

I feel a lot of things with that statement. Relief, disappointment, shock, hurt? But I realise that what he says is actually true. Naan, Peeta and I do love each other, and we have been a steady source of support and help for one another all through our lives, but none of us would have willingly gone to the Games to take the other’s place. 

“I love you Barley,” he repeats, “but I love myself more,” he adds gravely. “If I would have had the luck to survive my six years of Reaping hell, I wouldn’t have thrown it away to volunteer instead of you. And you need to accept this even for yourself. I was meant to be reaped and that’s that. There is nothing to forgive,” he concludes. 

I want to hug him, but something in the firm set of his jaw tells me that he is not in a mood for physical affection. Instead I just nod my head in silence. 

But I’m an idiot. And I can’t let things go.

“Katniss did volunteer for her sister though,” I murmur, “even though Primrose was meant to be reaped, like you said.”

I immediately know that I said the wrong thing when I see my brother’s lips set into a thin line and the heigthened colour of his face. “Well, Katniss is ... Katniss is something else,” he replies flatly. 

“What happened between you two?” I ask curiously.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly, “nothing real I mean. It was all for the Games,” he explains.

Oh shit. I step forward and lean back next to him on the same counter. “That sucks, Tiny,” I tell him, sympathetically reverting back to my childhood nickname for him. “Did she tell you that?” I ask gently.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replies. “She told me she was confused and didn’t know how she felt, but didn’t deny the fact that it was all a plan to get us out alive.” He shrugs and pours himself another glass of water. He probably wishes it was something stronger. 

“Well, it did work, didn’t it?” I ask slowly.

“It did,” he agrees not very graciously, “she’s a good actress.”

I sigh and tilt my head backwards to rest it against the kitchen cabinet. “What I mean is that she saved your life, Peeta. She hardly knew you at the time, she had a very good chance of winning the Games and, let’s face it, you were pretty much half dead when she found you,” I remind him. “She could have easily not done anything and won the Games anyway. Did you ask her why she actually bothered?”

Peeta looks at me, and the look on his face tells me that he probably didn’t think of asking such a question. 

“Tiny, perhaps she doesn’t love you in the way you do, with your visions of toastings and everlasting happiness, but she saved your life for a reason. Maybe it’s not love, but it takes a damn lot to do what she did for you, whatever feeling that may be,” I explain to him, feeling suddenly and uncharacteristically wise. 

A look of understanding dawns on my brother’s face, mixed with something that probably looks like hope. “You’re right,” he whispers, “I’ve been such an idiot,” he mutters to himself angrily, “when I think of how I’ve been treating her since we came back...”

“That’s right,” I agree with a grin, “so stop being so wounded, go to the Victory Tour with her and grovel your apologising ass until she comes round and realises how much she cares.”

My brother smiles back at me, and pulls me to him with a hug. “Thank you, Mellark-in-the-Middle,” he whispers.

_Anytime Tiny_.

\---

Before making my way home, I have another stop to make. I knock on the Everdeen’s door and I’m lucky to see that Katniss opens the door. She looks startled and gapes at me shock and silence.

Right. Miss Everdeen doesn’t talk much. I clear my throat and and reach out to give her a very awkward hug before whispering in her ear, “he is very sorry, and very upset. Please forgive him when he apologises to you.”

She stares at me. “There...there is nothing for him to apologise for,” she whispers.

“Excellent, that’s sorted then. I look forward to becoming an uncle, Katniss,” I reply with a wink before I step down the front steps and wave her goodbye.

\---

I don’t think much of that silly comment much in the weeks following my conversation with her. I find my way back into Lilly’s heart and I don’t allow myself to think about anything else for many weeks. I am surprised when my brother proposes to Katniss, and Naan and I drink ourselves into oblivion when Peeta announces Katniss’ pregnancy on the eve of the Quarter Quell. We drink and cry, not sure whether we are drowning, in white liquor, the sorrow for the imminent death of our brother or of that of the unborn child and its mother. 

When the first bombs start to fall, I surprisingly don’t think of Lilly. I think of my niece or nephew, and I wonder where she or he will live if there is no District 12 to come back to. 

I wonder if the baby will look like me and I’m sorry that I will never get to hold it. 

As the screams become louder and the flames beome hotter I stop thinking. 

Then I stop feeling.


	9. Her Best Friend's Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your support and kind comments. I try to reply to as many reviews as possible, but if you would like to interact more with me, feel free to follow me on my tumblr account (address in my profile page). I am also mildly amusing on good days!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. This story is harder to write than it might seem…in fact, once it’s finished, I might get it all beta’d (which is probably something I should have done in the first place to avoid some silly mistakes), and perhaps reposted. In the meantime … enjoy Hazelle’s PoV and please let me know what you think :)

As I look around at the spotless state in which I leave Haymitch Abernathy’s house I get the increasingly familiar satisfaction of a job well done. This man is a mess, a state of fact which is reflected all too clearly in the condition in which I find the house during my weekly cleaning visit. The first time May had proposed the idea of having me clean his house, Haymitch had just laughed in her face and told her that the Everdeens should just stick to being neighbours without coming up with initiatives that would concern him. It only took two days for him to change his mind, but it took me twice that time to actually clean his house from twenty-five years of filth and neglect. Rory, Vick and Posy had to pitch in to help with cloths, goodwill and cleaning products, and Haymitch had at least the grace to look embarrassed. He paid me well, more than I could have ever dared to ask, and every week has now been easier to handle. After Posy had once cut her foot on a piece of glass on his floor, I even stopped finding broken bottles strewn around. He never apologised for Posy’s little accident, but the money he carelessly leaves for me on the table every week can actually pay for more bottles of salve than my daughter could possibly need. 

The air is damp and cloudy this afternoon, and before leaving to go back to our house at the Seam, I peak at the training room which Peeta has set up in Haymitch’s house a few days following the announcement of the Quarter Quell. District 12’s old mentor hardly had the opportunity to protest before Peeta ordered to him to _shut up and clear his basement, and to not even dare to say anything about it_. The clearing up task had fallen onto me of course, and as soon as the young Mellark found out, he rushed down to apologise and help. He explained to me that the idea of setting up the equipment there was to make sure that the older man would have no excuse to miss out on the training programme that he set up for them and Katniss. At his own insistence, Peeta ended up doing most of the hauling of boxes himself, and I got paid far too much to wash after him. Had I not had a family of four kids to feed, I would have perhaps hesitated about taking the money. But the situation is what it is, and I am not going to miss out on providing for them. 

The Quarter Quell had come as a shock to all of us, and it was a shock that caused a great chasm in the District, for once not between Merchant and Seam, but between the Mellarks and the Everdeens against everyone else. Following President Snow’s announcement, most of the eighteen year olds of Twelve flocked to the streets, blonde and dark, joyfully embracing each other and walking around with dazed expressions, incredulous to the fact that they had survived the Reaping a year in advance. The Justice Building was swarmed with impromptu marriage registrations the following morning, and from many windows one could smell toasted bread and hear muted sounds of happiness. Concurrently, twelve year old children played and sang and celebrated an extra year of assured existence and childhood. The bakery, however, remained closed for three days, leaving us all hungry and bewildered. Wheaton and Leila Mellark never closed their bakery, not even following last year’s Reaping, and the rumour that travelled around was that the announcement was finally too much for them to handle. I can easily believe that, especially since I saw the second son, Barley, rushing to the apothecary numerous times in the past weeks while their mother all but disappeared. Actually, I like to think that Wheaton Mellark had decided to punish us all for being spared from the Reaping and from rejoicing about it. I want to believe that our kind district Baker has a mean streak in him that he has kept hidden all through his life, because otherwise I cannot even start to fathom why someone so kind, inherently good and totally devoted to his sons would have to give up his youngest, twice, to be butchered for sport by the Capitol. 

I’m surprised at the way in which Peeta is handling the upcoming Quell. While I was cleaning Haymitch’s windows on one of the mornings in which the Bakery was closed, I saw the Baker and his two sons leaving Peeta’s house in tears. The boy’s eyes, on the other hand, were dry and hard. According to Rory, he had marched straight to the school that same morning and demanded the transfer of the training equipment to the Victor’s village. I can imagine that the Principal’s hesitation lasted only until Peeta named the amount of coin he was offering, a sum that was far larger than the worth of the worn equipment that all the district’s schoolchildren had had to use for the past decade. 

Nevertheless, whatever the state it is in, it seems that Peeta is putting it into good use, as when I walk down to the basement I see that he has Haymitch walking on a sort of fast moving carpet that for the life of me I don’t know what it is called. At the same time, the boy is standing behind a punching bag, holding on tightly while yelling at Katniss to keep punching it. The girl is wearing boxing gloves, is flushed red, and looks furious.

“Again, Katniss.”

Punch.

“Another one.”

Punch.

“Again and perhaps with a little effort this time!”

Kick and removal of gloves.

“I’m done,” she growls at him, throwing the gloves across the basement. Rory, who has been all morning curled up in a corner reading a book looks up and moves just in time to avoid being hit straight in the face. Vick grins widely and I can see him take the whole scene in to tell Gale this evening after my eldest comes back from the mines. Posy clutches my hand in fear of a confrontation. Haymitch discreetly decreases the speed of the moving carpet machine. 

Peeta seems to bristle. “I don’t think you’re done Katniss, not until I have said so.”

The girl takes a menacing step closer to the punching bag and to him, but to his credit, he does not move and matches her glare squarely. “I’m done because I don’t need you to tell me otherwise,” she snaps back.

“You’re not done because you haven’t even started the real training that you need to be doing for the Quell, and I seem to be the only to call you out on it!” he retorts back angrily before turning quickly to Haymitch, who is snickering in the background. “And you, increase the speed to a run, _now!_ ”

“Why the hell are you making me train for?” Haymitch demands crossly, “aren’t you going to go all noble and volunteer instead of me if I’m reaped?” He increases the speed anyway, and starts off what seems to be a very painful jog, his feet slamming down noisily on the moving carpet. I’m pretty sure that they’re not supposed to do that. 

“What if they change the rules and I am not allowed to volunteer for you, genius?” replies Peeta scornfully. “We’re not taking that risk. So you run, and _you_ –“ he turns back to Katniss “obey and start punching!”

“Shut _up!_ ” the girl cries as she glares at him. “You’ve become unbearable! Why don’t you leave us alone and take care of your own training instead?”

“What do you think I do after you both leave this room? Braid marigolds?” he cries furiously, “but you two cannot be trusted not to slack off obviously!”

Heavens, the sweet Baker’s son has quite an obnoxious, self righteous side to him. I don’t think that he is far from the truth though. May has already brought me up to speed on her daughter’s reaction to the Quarter Quell’s announcement, and I find it hard to believe that she would be able to handle the mental and physical preparation that Peeta insists they go through to without him pushing her. Not that I can blame her of course. It’s easy to forget that in all probability, these two kids are going to die soon. Yelling at each other might help them relieve some of the tension.

“Stop being all superior with me,” Katniss hisses at him, “think of yourself and let me deal with the Quell in my own way!”

“By getting drunk with this one here?!”

“It’s Haymitch,” Abernathy says helpfully from his side of the basement. In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, I can’t help grinning. _The idiot_. 

“What difference does it make to you if I get drunk with Haymitch?” she screams back, “I get to die and you get to come back, and Snow is happy and everything goes back to normal!”

The wind seems to be knocked out of Peeta at her words, and the anger fades from his eyes in a matter of a second. “How can you possibly say that?” he asks incredulously, “how can you think that it would be better for me if you get to die at the Quell? Don’t you know me at all by now? Aren’t my feelings real enough for you to believe them?”

Katniss seems properly chastened at his words and visible deflates in front of him. “That’s not what I meant,” she replies in a small voice, “you know that.” 

“I don’t know what I know,” he replies rather dismissively, and crosses the room to pick up her boxing gloves, before throwing them back at her. “Here, wear them and throw some more punches, pretend it’s my face if it helps.”

She clutches the gloves and shakes her head stubbornly. “It doesn’t help. I don’t want to do this anymore,” she replies, her voice breaking with emotion. “Not if it decreases the chances of you coming back.”

“You can’t be serious, we’ve agreed that you’ll be –“ 

“We’ve agreed nothing!” Katniss cries, slamming the gloves to his chest. “You just decided everything about this Quell and you didn’t even bother to ask me what I thought about it!”

“What is there to ask you?” Peeta replies, his face betraying his shock, “do you want to die in the Quarter Quell? Is this what you’re saying?”

“Maybe that’s what I’m saying yes!”

“Well stop saying it, because it’s ridiculous.”

“Stop telling me what to do! Stop being the noble one!” her breath hitches shallowly as her tears start steadily streaming down, and she gives way to shameless sobbing. It’s the only sound that can be heard from any of us in the room. “Just … stop all this, please,” she finally begs in a whisper.

Peeta takes a step forward and starts to reach for her hand before he stops abruptly and turns away. “You have Primrose to think about,” he replies sadly, “you have your mother and … and –“

_Gale._

I know he means my son, but he cannot bring himself to say his name so he just gestures helplessly at me and my children. Seeing Katniss’ miserable face however, I am prone to think that at the moment, my eldest son doesn’t seem to be as prominent in her thoughts as this blonde boy who all but explained to her that he was planning to die so that she may return to us. 

Katniss shakes her head again. “What about your family?” she whispers, “you have people who want you back too.”

“I’ve already spoken to my family. They don’t understand, and they never will, but we’ve decided that we won’t waste my last few weeks arguing about it,” he replies, and I’m shocked at how definite his tone is. How can a seventeen year old make such peace with his imminent death? “I’m sorry Katniss,” he adds, “maybe I should have persuaded you to let me die at the last Games. None of this would have happened if you were crowned Victor without me. You would be living your life without the threat of the Quarter Quell over your head if I had died as I was meant to.”

The sound of the slap she gives him resonates around the room. “Don’t ever say, _or think_ that again,” she tells him before running up the stairs of the basement, tears still streaming down her face. Posy starts crying too and I quickly nod at Vick who picks her up and leaves the room, followed by Rory. 

I give Haymitch a meaningful glance and he enthusiastically hops off that infernal machine and leaves the basement in silence.

I sigh heavily, lower myself on a bench and look at Peeta, who looks shocked and hurt, his right cheek bright red from Katniss’ hand. After a minute, he moves silently towards the same bench and sits next to me.

I clear my throat, not knowing exactly how to broach the subject. How do I address him? Peeta? Boy? Son? Peeta. His name. Safe.

“Peeta, can we talk a little about what just happened?” I ask quietly. He nods and looks down at his feet, suddenly blinking rapidly. I take it to be all the encouragement that I need and will be receiving from him. “Life in District 12 is far from being perfect,” I begin cautiously, “and sometimes it seems as if it cannot get worse, and in your case, that sentiment is well justified. But purposely throwing it away, even if to save someone else, is not something that you can just decide in your state of mind.”

The boy looks up at me quickly, and for a minute it seems like he’s going to retaliate angrily, but one look at my concerned face seems to calm him down. “I appreciate your words, Mrs Hawthorne,” he replies, and if circumstances weren’t so tragic, I would smile at how polite he always is. “But it’s not something I have just decided on a whim. I wasn’t meant to survive the first Games, and I’ve caused nothing but trouble by having come back here alive. Now I have the chance to set things straight, how they are meant to be.” 

“I cannot believe that anything could possibly improve with the death of an honest, sweet lad like you,” I reply, and I mean it. This boy carries around him a sense of hope and steadiness that somehow engulfs whoever is around him. 

“Mrs Hawthorne, if I live, Katniss dies, it’s as simple as that,” he explains, and I notice that his eyes are starting to well up with tears, and that his voice is starting to falter.

“But it’s not up to you to decide who lives and who dies –“

“Then who decides? Snow?” he snaps, and before we know it, we gaze around in alarm, wondering whether his angry remark has now been captured by some hidden camera. After a few seconds, Peeta shrugs. “I never wanted to be a piece in their own game, and yet they keep trying. They won’t decide for me whether I live or die. I will make that decision myself, and while I’m at it, I’m going to do my utmost so that the girl I love returns back to her family.”

I don’t really know how to respond to his logic, because I do see his point. It’s a tragic, heartbreaking point, but a well thought one nonetheless. “Are you sure that the girl you love is worthy of your sacrifice?” I ask seriously.

“Does it matter?” he replies.

And as I look at the honest, bright blue eyes of this determined young man I realise that to him, it truly doesn’t. He loves with the overwhelming, all engulfing passion of an infatuated young man who sees no wrong in his girl, the kind of love that is useless when facing the harsh reality of a marriage, but seems to be enough to drive a seventeen year old to die for his loved one. Who am I to begrudge a young boy, who is weeks away from his death, of his right to sacrifice himself for love? 

“No,” I reply, “it doesn’t.”

***

The following Sunday, Peeta is at my door holding a camera and asking Gale for a picture. My son stares at him in disbelief before he explains that he wants to provide a reminder for Katniss to give to her during the Quarter Quell. 

“She will fight if she knows that you are waiting for her,” he insists.

Gale has the decency to look bewildered and ashamed. “I don’t know if this is right…” he begins.

“I think it _is_ right, so sit down and smile,” Peeta orders him, his jaw setting stubbornly. Gale seems to know better than to protest. 

I do not interrupt this exchange, but I know that this noble gesture will not work. I love my son, and I want him to be happy, but surely he must know that Katniss is lost to him forever? Even if she were to survive and come back to the District, the memory of Peeta will always be there, with its invisible strands holding her that much away from ever finding happiness with Gale, or with anybody else. It’s the same strand that kept me from getting married again after my husband’s death in the mines. Once you experience the real thing, there is no way you can settle for less.

I don’t voice my thoughts however. This is something that Gale needs to realise on his own.

After he has taken the picture and he is satisfied with it, I walk Peeta to the door and brush his bangs off his forehead while hugging him close to me in a way I suspect his mother never did. My heart breaks as he sobs into my shoulder and I try to keep my anger at bay. This is so unfair, so useless, so unnecessary. The Capitol is robbing this boy of his future, but I try to calm myself but holding to my one remaining thread of certainty. 

President Snow can never rob this boy of his ability to love, and at least he will die with the perfect image he created of Katniss forever engrained in his heart.


	10. His Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I apologise for the long delay in updating. . I’m becoming increasingly nervous about posting updates for this story, so I would be very happy to hear what you think. :)

I know exactly when the Darkness took over. I am able to relive the precise moment it happened, the words that triggered it and the touch that pushed me towards it. My breath still catches at the sight of the restrained tears in those blue eyes that I had equally loved and resented for the past seventeen years. 

I can also still hear the wail that accompanied me to that welcoming shroud of apathy. It was loud, painful, desperate. And it had come from me. 

…

Even before the Darkness came, I cannot remember a time when my life wasn’t dim or bleak at best. I was born as a consequence of the foolishness of my mother, the fifteen year old daughter of the Town’s main carpenter, and the careless lust of a young peacekeeper from District 5. He had been posted in our district for duty, and was quickly and quietly dispatched to some place unknown as soon as news of my mother’s pregnancy spread around the streets and reached his superiors. My mother died giving birth to me, and my grandparents, shamed, broken and angry, did nothing to make me forget that I was born from a union that should have never happened. Every day I was made to remember that my green eyes and auburn hair, traits which strictly belong to District 5, would remain with me as an indelible mark of my parent’s mistake.

In the clear division created in Panem, where entire generations were kept geographically divided from each other and securely penned inside their districts, there was no place for red locks and green feline eyes in a crowd neatly categorised in two. I could never fit in the close-knit group of the Seamers, who were united in their misery, and the Merchants scorned me for being providing the proof that my mother had erred in mixing outside the district. I grew up scared, suspicious, miserable and taciturn, but as my cursed luck would have it, I fell in love with the boy who encapsulated all that I should have been, and wasn’t. 

I loved Wheaton Mellark. Hopelessly, desperately and blindly. He was the pride of the district with his blonde, sun kissed waves which fell over his sharp blue eyes. He was kind and generous, good at school and sports, and a doting son who took over the family business when his father died when he was nineteen. He didn’t care that I looked different, and that I could never look at anyone in the eye because of my shame at their colour. He smiled at me when I visited his bakery far too often and on my sixteenth birthday he told me that I should learn the difference between being different and being special. One my seventeenth birthday he said that he thought I had pretty eyes but that he couldn’t see them well enough since I insisted on keeping them hidden. After that comment, I never broke eye contact with him, not ever. I stared at him and smiled even when his fiancée May, the apothecary’s daughter, was helping him out at the Bakery behind the counter. 

Wheaton was engaged of course. And he was engaged to the most beautiful girl in Town. How he could he not have been? He had been informally promised to May ever since we were out of middle school. It was all decided by their families and every survived reaping brought them closer to their wedding day. But I never broke eye contact with him. Not ever. 

The night when May broke things off with him, and was banished to the Seam by her parents I went to him. We cried together and he thanked me for being his friend. He took me willingly to his bed less than a month later. I don’t know what I was doing at the time. Comforting him? Taking advantage of his heartbreak? Loving him? Ruining his chance of happiness with someone whom he could learn to love? I relived that night in my mind many years after as I lay alone in our bed, but I was never strong enough to find an answer. All I know is that he would bury his impossibly beautiful face in my neck, playing with my red hair, panting that I was special, saying that he loved me. 

I never believed him. 

I married Wheaton, and on the day of my Toasting my grandfather reminded me that I will always be the second choice, and that I should be thankful to the apothecary’s daughter for leaving him for the rest of my life. I blocked his voice and vowed my loyalty to the baker. Wheaton never mentioned May, and she had the grace never to show herself at the bakery and for the first few years of our marriage, I was happy. It was a subdued, restrained, and disbelieving kind of happiness, but never had my life been brighter. I had not found love in the family I was born into, but I was determined to find it in the family that I would create for myself. 

\---

My first baby is a boy, Naan, born blonde and handsome like his father, as I thought was right. He was born to inherit the bakery, and it seemed fitting that he would also inherit the Mellark family looks. In temperament however, Naan takes after me; solemn and serious with a perpetual little frown and the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. Since his birth, he has been my anchor and solace. Naan can read my emotions, my insecurities and my resentment towards the district, and has developed over the years a method for providing me with the comfort that my husband failed to bestow. In return, I give him love and patience, to the detriment of my other sons, whose upbringing I basically left in the hands of their father. 

Barley is my middle son, born two years after Naan, yet another boy who looks nothing like me. It seems that my mixed genes can never compete with the one coming from generations of fair haired, stocky Mellarks. It is obvious from the very beginning that Barley and I would not enjoy the same relationship that I have with my older child. Even since he was a child, Barley could never understand me, and neither did he ever particularly need me. In all fairness, he has never needed his father either, and he has always viewed home as a necessary stop to eat and sleep between his adventures outdoors. He was from a very young age the kind of child that entered and exited neighbouring houses as if they were his own, and there were times where the only news we would hear of him all day was that provided by the various customers who would come to the bakery and cheerfully recount his latest mischief and whereabouts. Wheaton and I managed to keep him alive, well and healthy, but neither of us can actually say that we know, _really_ know Barley at all. But there is one thing that my second son clearly got from me, namely his remarkable ability to live in his own separate world, away from reality and its drabness. As a child I had created my own realm out of loneliness and survival and perhaps it was the same for him too. I never asked. He was never around long enough to explain. 

Peeta is my youngest son, my most bitter disappointment. He was supposed to be my much desired, long overdue red-headed, green-eyed daughter but instead he unremarkably shared his brothers’ features and further condemned me to a life of a stranger within my own family. His birth, his blue eyes and corn coloured locks turned me into a bitter, cold woman who refused her child and resented her husband. Wheaton was supposed to give me hope that I wasn’t alone in the world, and instead he further augmented the worthlessness of my heritage by providing me with three sons that I seem to have had no part in conceiving. Peeta turned to his father from the beginning of his formative years, and regarded me with a patient indifference that enraged me even more. The more he ignored me, the more I provoked him to get his attention. He was my child, but he inherited nothing from me. Nothing. He could have easily been anyone else’s child. He could have easily been May Everdeen’s son had she not foolishly left Wheaton.

My youngest son was a constant reminder that I was his father’s second choice. And that I always will be. 

As a young child Peeta cried when I hit him, as a boy he grimaced and spent more time at the bakery. As a young man he barely tolerated me and silenced me with a glare. To all he was the cheerful, sweet son of the Baker (never of the Baker’s wife!) but many failed to notice the silent anger that raged within him. He never openly deceived me, but just lived his life as if I never existed. And of course, he fell in love with _her_ daughter as a final act of revenge to me. When he was Reaped at 16, the devastation of my guilt overwhelmed me, but I couldn’t tell him, I couldn’t say those three words that were stuck in my throat, because I saw in his eyes that he didn’t care to hear them. So instead I made it clear that I thought that he would never make it back alive. His eyes had flashed with anger, _hurt_ , and I finally broke through his wall of indifference to me. I made my son hate me, before he left to die. Because I am that kind of person. That kind of mother. 

…

The Darkness comes on the night of the Quarter Quell Announcement. Peeta has grudgingly consented to have dinner with us, with the unspoken agreement that there would be no mention of his impending marriage. It is a topic I cannot really bear to think about either, so it is not difficult for me to sit silently, away from the banter between my husband and his sons, shutting myself out from the present as much as from the future made up of the presence of May Everdeen’s daughter in the family. 

The Everdeen girl has bewitched my son and saved his life and who is welcomed far more in this family that I could ever have desired to be. The girl, with her dark hair, olive skin and grey eyes, is all Seam, but she is at least all District 12. Unlike me. 

We watch the television in silence as Caesar Flickerman speaks about my son’s nuptials and presents the wedding gowns that the Capitol has created for the Everdeen girl. Peeta’s expression is unreadable, and the uncomfortable silence is only broken by Barley, who cracks a joke about the wedding night that makes us all flinch. I turn to glare at him when President Snow suddenly appears on screen and makes his announcement.

After that, everything is a blur. Wheaton cries, Naan punches the wall in rage and Barley storms the house. We can hear him cursing and yelling in the street as he runs away to an unknown destination. Peeta gazes at the screen before he hugs his father and brother tightly, both men reduced to a sobbing mess while he stares ahead of him, numb. He suddenly surprises me by turning to me, and something in my face causes him to start and to take me in his arms. I don’t realise I am crying until I feel his thumbs wipe away my tears from my cheeks. 

“Goodbye, beautiful Mama,” he tells me softly.

And it’s at that precise point that everything goes black for me.

…

The weeks and months following the Quarter Quell Announcement are lost to me. Sometimes I see Wheaton in front of me, his eyes desperate and his lips forming words that I cannot hear. Other times it’s Naan, who angrily shakes me and tells me come back for _him if not for us!_

There are times when I do wake up. The first time it happens is when I’m handed by Barley some kind of foul tasting concoction in a mug. He is brushing my hair, and the pain from the teeth of the brush as they untangle the knots makes me grimace. “You’re a goddamn poor excuse for a mother you know,” he tells me angrily.

“Language, Barley,” I croak before I leave again.

Another mug, another moment of lucidity. This time I see Peeta sitting next to Caesar Flickerman and I deduce that it is the night of the interviews preceding the commencement of the Games. He speaks about a baby, and all hell seems to break lose in the TV studio. I hear commotion in the streets of our District as well, but all I do is reach out to Wheaton, who grabs onto me as if I his last breath depends on it. It is really the other way round. 

I have never believed in the girl’s love for my son. But now I choose to accept that they have really created a life. A baby. I know my son is not coming back, even before Wheaton quietly explains to me Peeta’s plan to sacrifice his life for that of the girl; but maybe, just maybe, there will now still be a part of him that his family can still love. 

…

After Peeta’s announcement, I force myself to drink whatever the apothecary prepares for me in order to keep alert and to follow Peeta during the Quarter Quell. Within a matter of days, he and the Everdeen girl are the only district partners left, and at the rate that the Tributes are slaying each other, I know that his time is running out. 

_“No one needs me.”_

My heart cracks at his words, and I see in his eyes that he truly believes what he says. The girl’s reaction also shows that she readily accepts his words. I feel myself blush as she clings to my son, kissing him passionately for all of Panem to see. I hate her for believing so quickly that no one needs my son, but it is Naan who voices what is at the forefront of my mind.

“Well done everyone! Let’s collectively pat ourselves on the back for pushing Peeta to kill himself for a Seam girl at the age of seventeen,” he mutters angrily. 

“Yes, we suck as a family but I don’t think Tiny cares at this point,” Barley replies bitterly. He takes a swig of beer before speaking again. “And if it weren’t for that ass Finnick, he would have at least had sex one last time before dying,” he adds.

“Is this what you’re thinking about son at this time? Really??” my husband asks incredulously.

Barley glares at him. “What do you want me to think about Dad?” he retorts angrily. “That I will never see my brother again? That he will not see his baby ever in his life? That there is a great chance that neither of them will make it home?”

When no one replies, he stumbles out of the door with a loud _to hell with this!_ and Naan follows him in silence.

I stare at the screen in silence and I see that Peeta is now sitting next to Finnick O’Dair on the beach. The Tribute from Four grins apologetically at my son, who shrugs at him before giving him a fake glare. 

“She really does love you, you know,” Finnick says after a minute of silence.

At this statement, Peeta’s face lights up with a smile that brightens the screen and lights up the whole of Panem. It transforms his expression and fills my heart with warmth. A memory comes to my mind, elusive and blurred, but it’s there, and I look at Wheaton in puzzlement.

“That smile? Where … where have I seen it before?” I ask slowly.

Wheaton reaches to me and kisses me for the first time in a long long time. “That’s your smile, my love,” he replies gently. “That’s the smile you wore for our Toasting.”

I gasp and turn my eyes back to my son. My boy, my brave, good boy had inherited my smile. I hate myself for not ever showing it to him. 

I stare at Wheaton sadly, my hopelessness probably showing in my expression. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “I’m so so sorry.” He hugs me to him and kisses my forehead. “Wheaton, does she love him?” I add.

“He is going to die for her. She wants to do the same and is carrying his child. I think she does. But does it matter?” he replies.

I swallow a lump in my throat. I’ve seen the Everdeen girl walking around with the Seam boy, her “cousin”, too many times. My son has to be loved, not like me. Not ever like me. “It does matter,” I reply, clutching at his shirt. 

My husband takes a deep breath and strokes my hair gently. “Leila, you were my second choice, but you were also my final one,” he confesses, “I dearly loved all these years, and I was a very poor husband for not having told you this before.”

My tears flow freely as I thank our youngest son for allowing his family to heal as a result of his ultimate sacrifice. He will not witness it, but I will make sure his child does.

“We will love the baby won’t we?” I whisper. “Peeta’s child will grow up safe, happy and sound won’t he?”

“If it’s the last thing we do, Leila,” my husband replies, “and the Capitol won’t stop us.”

My husband was wrong. The Capitol did stop us. With its hovercrafts, its bombs, its rage and its hatred. We just didn’t know it at the time, but at least it gave us a brief moment of respite, and of hope that stemmed from second chances.


	11. Her Sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would really like to thank all those who started following and reading this story in the past weeks. I truly appreciate it.
> 
> Also a big thank you to alwaysameiko, jeeno2 and sponsormusings for encouraging me to actually post this chapter, even though you might hate me for it (you will see why). This is not the usual Prim interpretation, but please do give this chapter a chance anyway.
> 
> Big hugs ... and a very Happy 2013 to all! xx

On a hot August morning, during my first Reaping, my sister begins a fight that she is destined to lose. Of course, I do not know it at the time, and maybe if I did, I would have stopped her from volunteering instead of me. I would have told her that it was for nothing, and that the Capitol (or maybe something bigger?) had singled me out that day, and perhaps I would have prevented her from boarding that train.

But I have to be honest. I am not sure I would have gone up the platform next to Effie Trinket had I known what the future was going to bring me anyway. I didn’t want to die in an arena far from home and for all of Panem to see. I didn’t want Katniss to die that way either, but I don’t have to look too far within myself to see that I would not have done anything to stop it from happening. 

I know I am ungrateful, selfish even. I become aware of this, with full force, on that fateful day when Katniss volunteers to face the 74th Hunger Games instead of me. In fact, my first thought, as I gasp and wail in Gale’s arms, is not that my sister is going to die, but that _I am going to live_. That thought lasts for the long two seconds that I continue to relive every day, no matter how hard I try to drown the voices in my head that scream my guilt. 

_But I’m twelve...I can’t die at twelve!_

_Your sister is sixteen...she wasn’t even Reaped..._

_But that’s what she wanted, I didn’t tell her to volunteer!_

_She always looked out for you ... she took out the tesserae to keep you safe..._

During the Games, I can hardly bring myself to look at the screen, but at the same time, it is better to hide myself at home, than to have to face the Seamers and their strange looks. I am not Primrose Everdeen anymore, but Katniss Everdeen’s sister, the girl Katniss Everdeen is sacrificing herself for, the girl Katniss Everdeen mentions in her interview. Katniss Everdeen’s executioner.

_It’s not my fault! It’s the Capitol who’s killing Katniss. Not me._

_Not me._

_Not me._

No one hears me, because I am too much of a coward to speak. Not unlike Barley Mellark, Peeta’s brother, who is being accused of cowardice for not doing what no one would have done. Because Katniss volunteered for me, he was expected to volunteer for Peeta, even though no one would have seriously considered it before that day.

Unless they were blinded by a fierce, furious, irrational desire to protect someone as worthless and selfish as me.

I remember seeing Barley wandering vacantly around the District after my sister and his brother were herded away in that train to the Capitol. He had that vacant, miserable look that I see reflected back at me every time I catch my stare in any reflective surface. After the Opening Ceremony, my mother and I begin to find a loaf of white, crusty bread on our doorstep every morning, meaning that we can save up on our tesserae grain, which allows me a respite of some months before adding my name multiple times to the Reaping bowl. We both know that it is Wheaton Mellark who sends us the bread, but it is Barley who actually delivers it. He is not a particularly light-footed walker, but it is also completely impossible to miss his cloud of blonde curls as he tries to walk away silently. His curls that are spared from the Seam’s dusty blanket of coal dust. 

The day I go to the bakery to thank him for the bread is the first time I find a reason to smile since Katniss has left. I hug him tight, and we understand each other in a way that no one else can. With our embrace we share guilt, helplessness, self-loathing and anger. But we also squeeze each other’s hand and share a smile. 

After our hug, Barley begins stops to say good morning before leaving the daily loaf of bread. I’m not sure how it happens, but just as Katniss starts to really notice Peeta in the cave, my eyes start to brighten at the sight of his brother. I am not a complete fool though. I am nothing to him but the girl whose sister Peeta seems to have fallen for, and I am twelve, _but soon thirteen_ , while he is eighteen, Any thoughts I entertain with respect to him are foolish, delusional, and highly inappropriate in the circumstances we, and our respective families, are living in. 

Still, while my sister seeks to save herself and Peeta in the arena, I stop wearing my hair in two braids. And I smile whenever I saw Barley. Because, I am that kind of person, that kind of sister. Selfish and worthless.

Xxx

To my surprise, and disappointment, the Mellarks don’t move in with Peeta at the Victor’s village. However, Barley and I still interact whenever I am in Town. He teases me for being the “Smiling Everdeen”, and he even shortens that to “Smiles”. Katniss is stuck with the nickname “Scowls”, but I make sure to never mention it to her, even though silly nicknames seem to be the last thing on her mind since she returned from the Games. There is something that weighs on her mind at all times, and it goes beyond the nightmares that keep us all awake at night. I try to reach out to her, but Katniss still wants to protect me from whatever battle she is fighting in her mind. I don’t want her to protect me, I want her to be my sister, to scold me, to be mean to me, to fight with me over stupid stuff. The higher the pedestal she places me on, the more I want to jump from it and show her my true self. I wonder how she would feel though if she had to really see the person for whom she almost threw her life away. 

During the Victory Tour, I find more and more excuses to pass at the bakery and greet the Mellarks. Mr Mellark and Barley seem to be truly fond of me, and even Naan grudgingly exchanges a few words with me. Mrs Mellark eyes me with an expression I do not understand. When Peeta asks Katniss to marry him Barley comes to visit us with two large heart shaped cookies covered with an S and T.

“Celebratory cookies for Scowls and Tiny,” he explains with a wink.

Mom and I send him back to his family with some cheese from Lady, but not before he sits with us in front of the fire drinking a cup of warm milk and chatting amiably with both. Mom says I look feverish after he leaves. Maybe I am. 

After the announcement of the Quarter Quell, I feel once again the guilt encrusted sadness that had plagued me during the 74th Games. Everyone knows this is not a coincidence but no one really cares, except for our two families and the Hawthornes. The bakery is closed the day following President Snow’s announcement, but Barley still brings us our daily loaf, even though his hands are shaking, and his naturally fair face is pale and gaunt. He immediately notices that my eyes are puffy from crying and pulls me in for a hug. 

“No, Little Sis Smiles, you can’t stop smiling,” he whispers in my hair as he holds me close. I shake my head and cling to him. He pulls back slightly and looks down at me, smiling bravely. “We need to help each other out in this and if you stop smiling, I will lose it too.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and stifle my sobs. “I won’t stop smiling, Barley,” I whisper, “but ... you... don’t run off where I can’t find you ok?”

He brushes my bangs off my face and shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Smiles,” he replies seriously.

 

It’s hard to find a reason to smile though. I don’t really know why President Snow wants Katniss and Peeta back into the arena, but I can only imagine that it’s because my sister broke the rules he set. My sister refuses to talk about it, but just tells me not to worry. I bite my tongue to stop me from retorting rudely. I want to tell her that I would have never broken the rules like her, because I would have died like the tributes from District 12 are meant to. 

This time however, there will be no rule breaking. Only one will make it back home. Either Barley or I will lose someone during this round. Probably, both of us will. I feel sick at the thought, but clearly not sick enough to try and find a way to return my sister’s favour.

_The rules are clear. Only Victors._

_But you could still try and volunteer._

_What if they don’t let me go instead of her? What would Katniss do?_

_What if they do let you go instead of her? What would you do?_

I do not try to volunteer. 

Xxx

When I first discover that the whole Mellark family perished in the bombings, I am hysterical, especially since I see that Lilly Carter, Barley’s fiancée, is one of the very few who has survived from the Merchant class and I am not particularly keen on irony. It is Delly Cartwright who calms me down, with tears streaming down her cheeks, begging me to stop crying and reassuring me that they felt nothing, that he felt nothing. I’m not sure what Delly knows of my relationship with Barley but she seems to know enough to keep me away from Lilly and to stroke my hair as we huddle around the fire in the forest. Delly and I have never really spoken before and even though it should feel strange, it actually does not. War and despair seem to create the most unlikely of friendships. 

I don’t cry for Barley in 13. There is medicine to learn, schedules to follow and many wounded and sick to attend to. I don’t cry, but instead I try to find reasons to smile, just as he had asked me to do when he was still alive and giving us bread every morning. During days that are particularly bleak I close my eyes and ask him to send m a reminder that things can be good again. It always works. Sometimes it’s Buttercup, other times it’s a wound that heals faster than I would have thought, or a spontaneous song from Posy. I also conjure images of him before I go to sleep at night, and tell him about my day, imagining his reactions and friendly teasing. During the Capitol attack on 13 I imagine the Mellark family to be safe in their own section not far from ours. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can even hear his voice. I keep Buttercup close to me during those nights and dream of him, and in the privacy of my subconscious I find myself being more than just his _Little Sis Smiles_. 

Xxx

Many of the survivors from District 12 are from the Seam and thus known to me, but I spend most of my free time with the Hawthornes anyway, since they’re the only ones I really consider to be family. District 13 doesn’t really know what to with Rory. He was first placed in military training, which didn’t go too well, and neither was he found to be very useful in the hospital. However, once it was discovered how extremely intelligent he was, he was placed in the school to teach the younger kids and I don’t think I ever saw him looking happier. Finally he found a way of sharing his knowledge with semi-willing recipients even though he did not really give up on the information sharing with me. One evening, during reflection time, I made my way to the Hawthorne’s compartment. I had just coaxed Katniss into a fitful rest, following a particularly trying day spent reluctantly filming propos, and I decided to let her sleep until dinner time. I find Rory lying on his bed, looking rather sorry for himself, clutching a book which seems a little too old and worn to belong to the District 13 libraries. 

“Rory, is that book –“

“Madge’s? Yeah,” he replies tonelessly. “I wanted to give it back to her but ... I never got the chance.”

I’m not sure what to say to that so I lie silently next to him. 

“This is all for nothing, Prim, do you know that?” he asks after a few minutes.

“What do you mean?” I ask as I shift to face him.

“Well, this book Madge lent me, it’s about all the major wars that happened in history,” he explains, “did you know that the Capitol names, like Caesar, Plutarch, Fulvia, Messala...they’re all names from the Ancient city of Rome?”

I’m honestly puzzled. “No, no I didn’t. But so what?”

“Thousands of years ago, Rome ruled the known world. It kept entire regions as its slaves, treated non-Romans as second class citizens, lived in absolute wealth and continued to thrive at the expense of the regions outside of it. Does it sound familiar?” he asks.

“Yes ... it does.”

“Well, Rome collapsed after it became so rotten and weak from the inside that the outer regions managed to fight its dominion and break free. However, other civilisations behind it tried to create a new Rome to rule over all others. It’s a cycle that keeps repeating itself,” he explains seriously as he leafs through the pages. “Each empire falls, but every time ... another one rises to take its place, don’t you see? The Districts might, and probably will, beat the Capitol, but how long will it be until the next Rome rises?”

I swallow a lump in my throat as I mull what Rory just said. I refuse to believe that all our efforts are for nothing, and that Katniss is basically fighting a won battle, but a lost war. Thousands have already died in the fighting, our whole District was destroyed, a hospital in District 8 burnt down. Friends, loved ones...Barley.

My voice breaks as I reach out for my friend’s hand. “Rory, in the time between the fall of each old empire and a new one, what happens?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“There is a time period between cycles no? What happens during that time? Before a new Empire is established and an eventual war starts again?”

He smiles slightly. “There is ... peace. Enlightenment, scientific discovery,” he replies.

I squeeze his hand and smile back at him. “Well then, I think we just found our reason to fight then didn’t we?” I tell him. “I don’t know about you Rory, but I don’t want to be that one generation that has failed to overthrow a tyranny.”

Xxx

I sit on a chair next to Peeta’s bed, and look at him gently. The treatment with morphling seems to have calmed him down a little. He is still confused about his memories but the medical team behind him cautiously hopes that the calming affects of the morphling might actually allow one side of his brain to retrieve his real memories without another side actively fighting it. Even though I’ve been credited with the idea, it’s actually the result of many (authorised) hours spent pouring over books with Rory trying to determine whether any similar treatments existed in the past. The morphling was a shot in the dark, but its results have so far been quite remarkable.

Peeta has not been exposed to anyone but Delly in the past weeks, and even though my role is to sit behind the window and take notes, I can’t help but really enjoy listening to them reminisce about their childhood games and antics. I tear up every time I hear about Barley’s troublemaking, only to swallow my tears and smile. _Just as he wanted_. Delly is a wonderful girl, and she is making marked progress with Peeta, but I think it is now time for him to meet someone close to Katniss even though he still regards her with anger and distrust.

He eyes me warily, but does not flinch when I tentatively rest my hand on his. 

“Thank you,” he whispers rather hoarsely, “Delly told me that you came up with this treatment. I like it, it doesn’t hurt.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I reply. “Do you believe me when I say that all I want is for you to feel better?”

He frowns but nods after a beat. “Yes, yes I think so.”

I smile at him warmly. Peeta resembles so much his brother, but still looks completely different. I am filled with an urge to fix him. I take a deep breath, and I start to talk to him. About his family, about mine, and after some initial resistance, about Katniss. He snaps at me, he shakes his head, but he listens. And when I rise to leave, he squeezes my hand when I tell him that I will be back.

It’s a start, and it makes me smile widely. 

Xxx

As the hovercraft reaches the Capitol centre all I can see is fire, craters, blood and bodies. I am terrified and completely out of my depth and I still cannot understand why Coin asked for us interns to be part of the mission to the Capitol. I am not qualified to do this, and as we approach the barricades in front of the Presidential Palace, I start to feel sick.

The bodies and the blood ... they are of children. 

I’m filled with impotent rage as I rush to the barricades clutching my medical bag. A screaming toddler holds his hands out to me, and I see that he is shivering. As I remove my coat I hear a familiar voice screaming my name, just as a rush of fire fills my lungs. My sister. She is alive. 

_Katn-_

_I feel suddenly peaceful, painless and very very happy. This is what was supposed to happen, what Katniss fought hard against on that fateful August day when I was called out to die. She couldn’t keep fighting for my life when it was already lost. I still think that I am not worthy of her struggle but in this place, that doesn’t seem to really count anymore. I only hope that she will one day accept that I’m at peace, surrounded by love._

_There is Dad, there is Barley._

_And I know that I will never stop smiling._


	12. His Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! A few parts of this chapter might look familiar, as I took them from a one-shot I had written for Prompts in Panem some time ago, because I thought they fit. However, most of the chapter is new, and I really really hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I like Delly, and this is how I like to believe her story went...

It pains me to see him like this, my best friend, my only remaining friend, turned into a dull shadow of himself. It’s my eighteenth birthday today, and I’m spending it with him, just I have spent all other birthdays that I could remember. Only this time we’re not laughing together on my front porch, or behind the counter at his father’s bakery. I’m in District 13 and Peeta...well there are times when I don’t even know where Peeta is. 

I’m excused from my shift at Textiles this afternoon, not because President Coin is feeling particularly generous, but probably because she believes that I could be of greater use to the cause if I were to sit next to Peeta Mellark in the kitchen and get him through the hour without harming himself or others. I watch him silently as he determinedly mixes the batter as if his whole life depended on it, his brow furrowed in concentration, and his eyes darkened by the effort he is putting in it. 

_My birthday cake._

It kills me to think that, in actual fact, any hope he may have for a sane life does indeed depend on the progress he is finally making simply by going through the motions. His effort is heartbreaking, and I stop myself from helping him as he murmurs the steps and ingredients that he has known and replicated since childhood. His hands tremble ever so slightly as they hover mid-air while he second guesses something in his memory and there are times where he hesitates in his movements. The skin under my friend’s eyes is tainted with purple and his face, so dear and familiar to me, is gaunt and pale. If it weren’t for the fact that I have known him all my life, I would say that I am starting to forget what a smile from him actually looks like.

That isn’t possible though. Peeta Mellark’s smile has found its way too often in my dreams to be able to disappear from my memory any time in my lifetime. 

_But he is torn, broken and in so much pain. And he’s still baking a cake, just for me._

He catches me staring at him from where I sit next to the counter in the kitchen, bare, stark and cold as everything else in the underground prison that is District 13. The Peeta of my childhood and early adolescence would have raised an eyebrow quizzically and grinned, not too surprised at catching me staring at him. His expression would also hold that apologetic look he always gets when he realises that he still remains the unwilling but still so _grateful and sweet about it_ object of my affection. The Peeta that was returned to us following the Capitol administrations looks at me in suspicion and a spark of fear. My heart breaks.

“You’re doing well,” I whisper stopping myself from reaching for his hand. These past few weeks have taught me that it is still too early for unexpected and intrusive invasions of his personal space.

He frowns at me, and looks away sadly. “No I’m not, Dells,” he whispers. 

“Yes, you are,” I insist. “Look at you, look at what you’re doing now!”

“I’m baking a cake,” he snaps at me angrily, “and it’s going to taste awful, just warning you.”

He’s making it for me, and just for that it’s going to be the best cake in the world. 

“It’s going to taste great,” I reply, and something just hits me. “You remembered everything, even that extra spoonful of vanilla that no one but me knows you put there,” I exclaim with a wide smile.

Peeta looks at me with narrowed eyes, trying to see if I’m messing around with him. But I’m not ... I really am not. All I want is for him to return to me.

“You should fight it, Peeta, fight what they did to you,” I prod on gently. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” he mutters. “What do you think I’ve been doing ever since I’ve been here?”

“You sit in your room, you avoid everyone except me, and you go back to your cell,” I reply, shifting my head to try and catch his eye. “You go through the motions and survive. This is not a life worth surviving Capitol torture for. You know more than anyone else what, _who_ ¸ you fought for,” I remind him softly.

Katniss left 13 a couple of weeks ago, pretending to fight, shoot promos or just to run away from Peeta. I’m not sure which, and I can’t pretend that I care much. All through my life I couldn’t help but resent this elusive Katniss, this Seam loner who was always far more present in my life and Peeta’s than I would have ever wanted. It never stopped me from being civil to her in the rare times we interacted, friendly even, but lately, ever since the scene in the dining hall where I managed to calm Peeta down, there has been a shift in our relationship. To my surprise, Katniss Everdeen started resenting _me_. I’m not sure how to handle this turn of events. No girl has ever had cause to resent me, not even the girls who invariably crushed on Peeta as soon as he started filling our his brothers’ worn T-shirts when he hit his growth spurt. I was always his best friend Delly, plain, friendly, _harmless_ Delly who posed no threat to anyone. Except now, apparently, to Katniss Everdeen.

 _If only she knew._

If only she knew what a broken boy, _man_ , she left behind. That with each dose of morphling, his anger fades and is replaced by something far worse. If only she knew that my presence during his treatment is mostly to be able to comfort him at the end of each session, when he just clings to me and cries while wishing that it was her instead of me. 

My indirect reference to Katniss startles Peeta, and he stiffens and turns around to glare at me, breathing heavily, his blue eyes cloudy. “Shut up, Delly,” he warns. The guard standing next to the door makes a move towards him, but I raise my hand to keep him away. I’m not afraid of Peeta, how could I be? He would never hurt me. Unlike Katniss, I haven’t been deemed essential enough to his life to turn me, in his memories, into a blood crazed mutt intent on killing him. A lucky miscalculation from the Capitol, which I intend to use to my full advantage. 

His next morphling treatment is due tomorrow, and maybe the effect of the last session is fading so I try to remind him of what the doctors in 13 have been stressing into him these past weeks. “They lied to you about her, Peet. She’s not a mutt, she’s not the monster that they’re making you believe she is…” my voice trails off as I see his shoulder slump and his eyes fill in with that sadness, that terrible despair that leaves me breathless. 

“I know that,” he whispers, and I can’t help sigh in relief, “that treatment with the morphling, is helping… a lot.” He takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly at me, his honest eyes bright with unshed tears. “I’m not angry or afraid of her any longer, or at least not as much as I used to be,” he finally admits, “I just feel stupid…and gullible, for having believed that she could possibly have feelings for me.” 

“Whatever she did, she did it to protect you. Never to hurt you,” I remind him. “She could have won the Games, but she wanted it to be with you. She nearly got herself killed to get you the medicine…hers might not yet be the love you want from her, but it seems rather strong and loyal and beautiful to me!” 

Peeta lets out a noise that seems to be a cross between a sob and a snort before making my sad, grey world brighter with a tiny smile. “Barley told me something similar once,” he says, “before the Victory Tour, when things were very rough.”

I think of Barley. Of Naan. His family. My parents. Our friends, our teachers, our neighbours. Our loss. For a moment I can’t breathe. 

_Later…I’ll cry later._

My compartment, shared with my younger brother who must be Panem’s heaviest sleeper, will afford all the privacy and opportunity for me to weep. In the meantime, Peeta and I have a cake to bake.

Xxxx

Later that evening, Peeta sits nervously beside me as I share my cake in the dining room, and does not really respond to the compliments on his work except for tiny, nervous nods. He is still not comfortable with a crowd, and before long he is accompanied back to his room, the cuffs around his wrists still a reminder of how far away he still walks from me.

I slump down in my chair and look at the slice of cake in my plate. I suddenly don’t really feel like it anymore. 

A chair scrapes across the table and Gale Hawthorne sits down, regaling me with a nod. It takes all my effort not to roll my eyes at him. 

The last thing I want to is to share a table with Gale, but I’m still too polite to just move away, especially since he seems to actually want to have a conversation with me.

“How’s Mellark?” he asks.

“Which one? The hijacked one or one of those you left behind to die in District 12?” I snap. I wince when I see the guilt in his face. That was incredibly uncalled for and I immediately feel like crap. I had meant to provoke anger, and not sadness. There is enough of that around anyway. “Sorry,” I whisper. “That was unfair, and untrue, and I’m having a bad day,” I add.

He plays around with his food for a moment, before looking up again. “Peeta,” he says slowly. “How is Peeta?”

“He has good and bad moments,” I reply with a shrug. “I push him too hard sometimes, but I’m not sorry for it. He needs to break through the damage they caused him. He deserves better than this,” I explain, as I gesture helplessly.

Gale nods but says nothing. I don’t think he can bring himself to agree with me on that point. He is stubborn enough to still refuse to see what I see about Peeta but, on the other hand, I am similarly stubborn enough to refuse to see what is so special about Katniss. Gale and I are more similar that one would initially believe.

“I am you, you know,” I tell him cryptically, and I almost grin at his surprised reaction. “I am to Peeta what you are to Katniss,” I explain. “I’m the Gale of the Merchant Partnership. You’re the Delly of the Seam Duo. Without the shiny hair,” I finish with a smirk. 

Gale bites back a retort, and ponders on this point for a moment before grabbing a fork and dipping into my slice of cake. _What the hell?!_ “It’s not fun is it?” he replies with a small smile. 

I shake my head, but shrug. “It must have been harder for you I imagine,” I answer. “Peeta has been pretty consistent and honest about his feelings for Katniss and for me since we were old enough to talk about it. I just held on to the hope that he might change his mind. I did try very hard…even stole a kiss or two. But it was easy to realise that his mind was always on your side of town.” 

Gale says nothing for a moment. “During the Games, both Games, I was ready to give up you know,” he confesses. “But now …” his voice falters as he stares at my plate, his expression unreadable. “Cake’s good,” he mutters finally.

I lean towards him and stare at him seriously. “I don’t think there is much of a challenge, Hawthorne, and if you actually paid attention during the Quell you’d know it” I tell him, “but winning like this, while Peeta is in the state he’s in doesn’t count. If she turns away from him now, it does no credit to either of you.”

I stand up to leave the table, and I bump into a towering dark figure that seems to have been hurriedly walking to our table. I look up and groan.

 _Thom Bloody Styles._

Thom Styles is an old friend of Gale’s, dark and grey-eyed like most of the survivors of the bombing and now a soldier in training in District 13. Together with Gale he led us all away from our burning district into the woods, so technically I should be somewhat…grateful to him. But Thom Styles was also my tormentor during most of elementary and middle school, the same sneering bastard who once heard me laugh with Peeta during lunch break and immediately started the rumour that my real name was … Delirous. Walking around school for the following five years was torture. 

_Hey Delirious! I’m having a bad day – why don’t you do that manic laugh of yours?_

_Delly-Delirious, make me laugh! The Seam needs some cheering up you know!!_

It is not something I can and want to easily forget. I have my grandma’s laugh, it’s all I remember of her and I’m proud of how loud and free it sounds. Thom Bloody Styles can go to hell and roll himself in shit for all I care. In fact, I wish had any reasons left to laugh, because then I’d just climb on a chair and guffaw straight into his ugly Seam face. But I don’t have reasons, not even a single one, so I just glare at him, steeling myself for some smartass remark, because it’s Thom Bloody Styles, and he is an asshole, even during a war and in an underground city. 

“Happy Birthday Delly,” he tells me.

What?

_What?_

“What?”

“I heard it was your birthday, and that the Baker’s son baked you a cake,” he replies, shifting nervously. “I came here to wish you a good day,” he finishes rather lamely.

I wait for the taunting to begin because he is of course going to tease me about the cake, and how I shouldn’t eat it all by myself. Besides my laugh, my weight was always a matter of interest for Thom Bloody Styles. 

_Hey Delirious – is it true that you ate all the food supplies for this month? Because it certainly looks like it!_

I was always chubby growing up, even though I ate the exact same amount of food as my stick-thin brother Nate, and sometimes even skipped food at school, because I was made to feel ashamed for eating when I actually don’t look emaciated and starving like the rest of the district. The Seamers especially, were almost cruel in their glares, so often I just passed on my lunch to Nate, or to Emmeline Peters, whose father was often too ill to manage their flowershop. Thom never saw those things though, and on the nights when I used to cry because my stomach ached from hunger but my thighs still rubbed together, my Papa used to hold me tight and comfort me. 

_“You’re just like your Mama, my little round Delly,” he used to tell me. “And that’s what made me fall in love with her. Who would ever want to hug and love a bag of bones?”_

Papa. Mama. I feel my eyes fill with tears, and I blink them away impatiently. Thom Styles looks at me with an expression that might be mistaken for concern had it belonged to anyone who was not him.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

I mutter something unintelligible, which should have but certainly didn’t sound like _Go To Hell damnit!!_ , and run away to my compartment. Lights will be off soon, and I just ache with the want to cry. 

I’m eighteen today. And I don’t think I want to reach nineteen.

Xxx

My gruelling shift at Textiles is almost over, and my mood is foul. Peeta hasn’t done as well as I would have liked today, and I cannot do anything about it. Because I’m stuck in bloody Textiles. 

It hadn’t taken the District 13 officials much time to decide where to place me. The minute I submitted a form that said that I came from a family of cobblers and tailors, it was assumed that my contribution to the war effort would be to put together District 13 overalls and uniforms. I didn’t mind the soldier’s uniforms much, but I hated the grey overalls, with their useless drabness and uniformity. 

In my first week of work I tried to include personalised additions– a little flower embroidered to the tiny overall of an infant, an extra seam to accentuate the hips of a shapely girl who had her eye on Lance Matthews, other tweaks to introduce the individuality of the wearer, but I was discovered immediately, summoned before a Council and ordered to work extra hours to eliminate all traces of my “rebellious and non-conforming actions”. So what with the extra hours of work and the time spent with Peeta for his treatment I usually end up alone at my station long after my fellow workers would have gone. Therefore the last thing I expect as the door slides shut behind me is to find a silent figure leaning against the wall and lying in wait for me. 

“Holy sh-… motherfu-!” I gasp. Mama taught me to use self control when it comes to cursing. It didn’t always work.

It’s Styles again, and he’s looking at me sheepishly, holding a flowerpot in his hand. 

A flowerpot. 

“Sorry to have startled you,” he begins, squirming at my glare, “I j-just arrived, I am not stalking you or anything,” he stammers.

“Oh of course not. What do you want?” I ask rather ungraciously as I start walking towards the elevator. I try to hasten my steps, but with his ridiculously long legs, he outpaces me easily. 

“I brought you this flower, as a birthday present, for you,” he explains. 

I stop abruptly and stare at him in silence. I’m not sure if I’m just surprised, confused or suspicious. It’s probably a mix of everything. 

“I know your birthday was yesterday, but I got to know too late and Nancy from the conservatory would not let me take it,” he adds earnestly.

Well no shit. Thom has the social skills of a … childhood bully.

“And how did you persuade her today?” I ask in clipped tones.

His face softens into a small smile, a small crooked grin just underneath his long nose that does not look quite as ugly as it should. I wince internally. _What?_

“I told her it was for you. She loved the flower you sewed on her baby’s overalls, and said she was so sorry that she had to give it back,” he replies, his tone friendly. “Go on, take it, it’s my gift.”

_Hey Delly-Delirious! Leave some food for the rest of us!_

“What do I do with this?” I growl. “Do you want me to eat it or something? Because that’s what Delly-Delirious does right? She laughs and eats and gets taunted by bastards like you!”

Thom flinches and to my surprise, he looks ashamed… and hurt. 

“No Delly … no no, of course not…no,” he replies rather helplessly. “That was when we were kids, years ago, I had forgotten…”

“Well I haven’t Thom, I haven’t forgotten, not one word of it,” I reply, and I wrap my arms around me, trying to still their trembling. I really, _really,_ don’t need this right now. “How you made fun of my weight, how you called me Delirious –“

“I really thought that Delirious was your name,” he interrupts, “honestly Delly, I swear, that’s what I thought your name was! I was an idiot back then,” he adds as a I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.

“You’re still an idiot Thom, if you thought you could come here and give me a stupid flower … what the hell is it anyway?” I retort, as my eyes grudgingly fall on the flowerpot. It was beautiful actually.

He catches me eyeing it and lets out a breath he seems to have been holding.“It’s a Delphinium,” he explains, “I chose it just for you, not to bring up the past. I had forgotten about that, because I’m an ass, and I’m sorry!” He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. I remain silent, honestly confused. “A Delphinium, after your name,” he insists, “I know it’s not Delirious anymore.”

Oh I see. “Delly stands for Adelaide, Thom, and not for Delphinium,” I reply with a sigh. Every cell of my body wants me to be snide and mean, but something in his face makes me refrain from doing so. He seems really … crushed.

“Oh. Oh shit.”

“Yup.”

“I’m an idiot aren’t I?” he says angrily. “An idiot, a bully and an ass,” he adds kicking the wall in frustration. I really don’t know what to make of him. I don’t even know what to make of this situation. 

I take the pot from him gently and summon the elevator. As we wait for it in awkward silence to reach our level, I take a moment to really look at his gift. It’s a deep, brilliant blue, and would stand out beautifully when compared to the drabness of my room. No one has ever given me a flower before. Not even Peeta. 

I think I’ll keep it.

“It’s the thought that counts,” I reply, “thank you…Thomas?”

“Yeah, that’s right, and … you’re welcome.”

The name Thomas really does not suit him, and I’m about to tell him so, but then he smiles at me gently. The smile is still crooked. It’s still somewhat sweet. And so I say nothing. 

“Will you keep it?” he asks shyly.

“Yes. Yes, I think I will,” I reply after a pause. “But why Thom? Why now?”

The elevator door slides open and he invites me to move in before him. I frown slightly at this unexpected gesture of chivalry and hold the pot tight to me. As we slowly make our way up, he bites his bottom lip nervously. “I might be going to fight soon,” he confesses. “My training is almost done, and I might be deployed in a few weeks. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, and I thought that giving you a birthday gift would have broken the ice between us. I never thought, never imagined that my teasing when we were kids would have made you so angry!”

I bristle at his words. “That wasn’t teasing,” I fume.

He raises his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “You’re right, I know, but Delly, that was years ago! We grew up, we lost our loved ones and we’re fighting a war,” he pleads. “The last time we even spoke I was actually your height,” he adds cautiously, “please let’s put it behind us.”

I’m a diminutive 5’2” and the thought of tall and langly Thom Styles being my height makes me smile before I can stop myself. 

“Ok, I’ll try,” I whisper.

He beams at me and opens his eyes wide with happiness and I do roll my eyes. Idiot. 

As soon as we reach our floor, he walks with me in the direction of my compartment, even though I could have sworn that he was housed at the opposite end of the floor. “Just for the record, I always thought that you were pretty,” he finally tells me when we reach my door.

“You always thought I was pretty _fat_ ,” I reply with a huff.

“No, _pretty_ ,” he replies, reaching out for my hand in both of his. They’re warm, so very warm. “But Seam boys couldn’t think that Merchant girls were pretty, and so I behaved like an ass. Please let me make it up to you,” he finishes. 

I am not sure what I’m doing. This is overwhelming, unexpected and completely alien to me. My only experience of love has so far been that of standing behind Peeta as he pined for Katniss. Love has always meant self-sacrifice, disappointment, and feelings of inadequacy. Now Thom says that finds me pretty, that he always found me pretty, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m not meant to be considered pretty. 

I remove my hand from his and fiddle uncomfortably with the buttons of my overalls. I don’t know what I’m doing and what is happening but some things need to be made clear.

“Thom, this is the thinnest I’ve ever been in my life, and I’m still bigger than most girls,” I begin and he looks at me with a puzzled frown.

“Yeah so?”

“Well, I’m always, _always_ hungry here and if the war ends, and we go back home, I plan on eating everything that happens to be on my plate, and that means I’ll get fatter again. Like at school.” 

He reaches for my hand again ... and kisses it. I just gape at him. What is this guy? 

“If the war ends, and we go home, I would like to be the one to bring food to your plate, Adelaide,” he replies with a soft smile, “second helpings and all, if you allow it.”

I’m not sure if I allow it, but I don’t take my hand from his either. 

The next day, I allow him to hug me.

When Peeta is sent off to the Capitol and I cry and mourn the loss of my friend, _because I know that he will die for Katniss Everdeen_ , I allow him to kiss me, and I kiss him back, because in my despair, my heart still beats a little too fast when I see him. 

On the night before his deployment, I allow him to take me to his bed. He holds me tight afterwards, and when he whispers in my chest that he loves me, and that he’ll wait for me to love him back, and that _I’m so soft_ I know that my tears are not due to the soreness of having a man inside for the first time. 

He reminds me of my Papa, and I think I love him too. 

Xxx

The people I love survive the war. My brother Nate never made it to the actual fighting, and returns with me to District 12 to take over our family trade. Peeta also returns eventually and slowly, little by little, he regains his strength, his sanity and wins over his lifelong love. 

We remain an important part of each other’s life, and our relationship develops into a mutual bond made of love and respect which finally stands on equal ground. His eyes shine for Katniss, and mine shine for the stupid lad who teased me relentlessly during our childhood.

I don’t love Katniss, but she survives as well. But I grow to like her when I see just who desperately and truly she loves Peeta. I witness their first awkward steps together, their linked hands, their shared hopes. I am present for their wedding, but I’m also present throughout their marriage, just as Peeta is for mine. 

I marry Thom of course, how could I not? He keeps his word, and spends every day of our life together making up for his past behaviour with his never-wavering strength and loyalty towards me and our children. He teaches them how to show love and respect and how to make those around them feel strong, secure and appreciated. I teach them to love and laugh at themselves, to speak their mind, to never stop asking questions, and to forgive. 

And one day, Thom calls me “his Delirious” and I laugh, with my loud crazy guffaw that makes him grab me and kiss me in way makes me forget about my second helpings. And that’s when I decide that maybe … it is not such a bad name after all.


	13. Her Carer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. At first it was going to be from the PoV of Haymitch as their mentor, but then I realised that Haymitch has been done so much, and so well, already, that I might not have been able to render him justice. I got a review some weeks ago, asking me to write Sae, and somehow…it worked. So here it is ... hope you enjoy it! xxx

I don’t remember a time without hunger, Reapings, poverty and division. But I’m of the few that actually know that such a time existed. Not only was my grandpa born before the Dark Days, by his Papa before him had survived the Greatest War, and had lived to see a whole nation being destroyed and the aftermath that led to the miserable life we have today.

The details are hazy. At fifty, I am not young, and I’ve never been very smart. I didn’t like school much. I don’t know how to read and all I know in life I learnt from the little stand at The Hob that I took over from my poor Mama, and which somehow keeps the most desperate of us alive in times of need. 

Grandpa used to tell me that his Papa lived in a time where people could speak and read and learn and travel and communicate freely. In those days people did not only have telephones, but they had little flat boxes and devices which they could carry around and use to communicate and look for answers to questions they could ask without getting into trouble. There were flying machines, different from hovercrafts, which used to take you to other lands, and people used to choose to fly just _for their own amusement_. Sometimes I think that he was just playing around with me, filling me with stories that just cannot possibly be true. But from what we see on television, the Capitol does have things that are more fantastical than flat phone devices, so maybe...there were times where such things did exist even in the Districts?

Mind you, the life Grandpa spoke about was different. He says that his Papa told him about other lands besides Panem, or North America, as it used to be called before. There used to be whole vast lands where people all looked like that boy who died from District 11 last year, and others where people look just like the girl from District 3 who won that edition with the snakes. Apparently great-Grandpapa lived in a time where people were not compared for their looks to Tributes from specific Districts, because Tributes did not exist, and neither did the segregation of the Districts. 

As a child I was told that people spoke other tongues too, but I don’t think that can be true. What is the point of having special phones if then you don’t understand each other?

Not that it matters anymore. The Greatest War came, I don’t really remember why, but I think it was because people worshipped different gods, or one god with a different name, and they started killing each other because of it. It seems to me to be a rather silly reason to start a war, especially since it led to bombs being dropped that caused the sea to swallow up land and kill almost everyone, and for the survivors to turn against each other, leading to the creation of Panem. But who am I to question? Perhaps if you have everything, you choose to start wars for silly reasons. President Snow does not allow us to think of gods and other such things. Maybe he is right. I never really question what President Snow decides. 

I don’t know whether there is anything outside of Panem anymore. After the Greatest War ended, communication stopped, and Grandpa always thought that everyone in those faraway lands died and that only we managed to survive. But he didn’t know for sure. He was not allowed to ask. I used to wonder as a kid whether people existed outside of Panem, but the older I grew, the less I cared. Life outside of Panem started to matter less and less when the world around me kept growing smaller and smaller. I survived the Reaping in a midst of indifference and apathy, not wanting to die in the arena, but not particularly keen on the life I was leading in the Seam either. I married at eighteen, had a daughter two years later. My husband died in the mines, as I was always taught to expect him to do. The Seam boys who survive the Reaping still have to face their own daily arena. The Seam girls learn to grieve with detachment when they lose their father or their first brother. By the time they lose their husband, they’d be mixing their sobs with foraging for food and work. 

And this was my life, with a world shrinking more and more until only my daughter remained to give it importance. The fates were evil though, and she died at childbirth, leaving me to deal with heartbreak that I was never prepared for. My son-in-law remarried soon after, choosing to leave me with a granddaughter who is the most gentle and most beautiful girl in the world, and who will never know sorrow because in her simple, happy mind, she can see no bad in life. 

My small world let the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games pass without much devastation. I was fond of the Seam girl, and in her small way she contributed to my life at The Hob, fitting perfectly into our little network of illegality that somehow kept us all going without facing the whip or death. I didn’t know the boy other than he was the baker’s youngest, and that on the rare occasions where we would cross each other in the District and he would greet me with a “Good morning Ma’am Sae”. 

Sweet, sweet, polite boy.

And so the train took away one of the only providers of fresh game, and the only person in my little world to call me Ma’am. I did not give it much thought until the Games actually started, until I saw Peeta and Katniss – their names suddenly on everyone’s lips - struggling to keep each other alive, unknowingly engaging a nation with their bond. I’m not sure when or how it happened, but before I knew it I had allowed the miner’s daughter and the baker’s son to sneak their way into my little world. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And here they still are, after the Bombing, after almost a year in District 13 working in the kitchen and after seeing the world as Panem knows it collapse with one arrow. Katniss returns scarred, guilty, consumed by nightmares, and Peeta follows her after a few months, confused, frightened, and struggling against his poisoned reality. 

Following some unsure and cautious attempts, the boy slowly makes his way back into the girl’s life. He starts coming for breakfast soon after his return, and helps by washing his plate and hers. After a few days, she starts to carry her plate to the sink. A week later she helps him to dry them. On the day she murmured a shy good morning to him, and the boy smiled a smile that filled the room. My world may be little, but it shined as a result.

When I arrive to her house this morning, I smile when I see that the boy’s shoes are already placed tidily by the door. I smile, guessing that soon my services will not be needed in this house, until I hear loud sobbing from the living room, and I see the girl crying helplessly while the boy rocks her in his arms as he tries to calm her down. Even though I can guess that the girl cries a lot in private, this is the first time I see her sobbing openly since her return home. I wonder whether I should perhaps intervene, but I decide not to. From what I witnessed during the Games and the war, only the presence of the boy can keep her functioning. So I stay hidden in the doorway, witnessing a scene that should not really be mine to see. 

“I can’t sleep, I can’t sleep!” she whimpers in despair as she clings to his shirt, “I try…I’m so tired, I can’t keep awake, but then there is much blood and fire...I can’t take it anymore!” her voice trails into wrecking sobs while the boy strokes her hair.

“I know Katniss, I know. I hear you scream every night,” he replies sadly as he rubs his hand against her back. The gesture seems to have a calming effect on the girl, whose jarring sobs slowly turn into sniffles. My heart sinks as I realise that they are so, so young. The way we have treated our children all these years, sending them to die instead of protecting them, is shameful, and these lost souls are the constant reminder of our cowardice. How could we have let it happen?? 

“Every night, I want to come and comfort you, but I don’t know whether you even want me around,” he tells her sadly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Not after what I’ve become.”

Katniss stares at him in disbelief. “You’re Peeta,” she whispers, “you’re Peeta and you’ve become nothing else,” she tells him as trails her fingers gently down his face. 

He gives her a small smile and cups her face with his hands. “Would you like me to ... stay with you, like we used to do before, maybe until you fall asleep?” he asks gently, as he wipes away her tears with the pad of his thumb, “I can leave in the morning, as soon as you want me to, I promise.”

The girl is silent for a moment, and buries her head under his neck before nodding. “So you’ll stay here until I sleep?” she repeats, as if she’s trying to believe it, “you still want to help me?”

“Do you really have to ask?” he replies as he tucks her untidy hair behind her ear, “I’ll stay until you tell me to go.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The day after, I once again walk towards her house and I see them both carrying boxes from his house to hers, with the girl insisting on carrying more than she can handle and looking around her as if challenging anyone who might have something to say. There is no one but me in the vicinity, and I definitely have nothing against this arrangement. She looks stronger and more alert than I have seen her in a long time and she rushes up the steps of the porch while the boy slows down to greet me.

“Did she sleep?” I ask immediately.

“Yes. All night,” he replies with reddened cheeks as he pretends to forage in one of the boxes that he had just set down. 

“Good for you, boy,” I tell him, “and thank you for coming back for her.”

The boy frowns, his brow furrowed as if in thought. “Katniss is my home, Ma’am Sae. I have nowhere else to be, and here is where I want to stay.”

It is clear that I am not needed in her – their - house anymore, so I decide to make my way towards Haymitch’s home and start to clean. He will wake up, rant about my intrusion, but then he will pay me generously. I will make sure to visit every few days. Winter is coming, and my granddaughter needs a new coat.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time goes by in my little world, and Thom Styles and his reconstruction team build me a little home in the Square, since the Seam exists no more. With the money Haymitch pays me to take care of his house, I don’t have the need to do anything else than sit on my porch and marvel at the life that is happening around me. I see smiles, peace and the determination to learn from past mistakes and to build something new and lasting. Delly Cartwright and her brother reopen their family’s shop. He makes shoes, she sews clothes, and within a few months she becomes Delly Styles. Thom can’t seem to get over his happiness, and spends the first week after their Toasting introducing her to random people as “my wife, Adelaide!”, even though most of the District has known Delly all her life. This only stops when Delly publicly – and rather loudly - threatens to introduce him to a broken nose if he didn’t cut it out. I never heard people laughing so heartily in the Square. My world in District 12 is becoming increasingly happy. And my heart remains linked to three people.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A year has passed since Peeta and Katniss found each other. The boy assists in the rebuilding of his bakery, and _Mellark’s_ now stands once again in the Square just opposite the new Justice Building, alongside shops owned by dark haired merchants who learned their trade in The Hob. The class distinction is now gone, together with most of the original blond population of the District, but with the closing of the mines, and the cleaning of the air, more and more people from surrounding districts are also moving to 12 to try their luck at a new life.

There are days where from my porch I catch sight of the girl at the bakery, sitting quietly in a corner behind the counter, reading a book or just staring outside the window. According to Haymitch her stays at the bakery usually coincide with a night full of screaming or sobbing by either of them. It seems that being together in the same room calms them down, a guess that is confirmed by the fact that whenever there are no customers, the boy is quick to crouch next to her to meet her lips with his with a gentle kiss. Someday I might tell him that their actions are visible to anyone who’s looking, but then again, why should they be made to feel ashamed of being in love? 

She learns to smile more while he encourages her to hunt, at the same time trying to learn not to drive himself crazy with worry behind her back. They sleep, they work, they live, and it is quite clear to everyone around them that they love as well. So it comes as a shock when one day, the bakery remains closed, and I find the boy at Haymitch’s house trying in vain to fight back tears. 

“But kid, you know how she is,” Haymitch says, looking totally out of his depth in the conversation that I’m interrupting, “she’ll come round, I’m sure.”

The boy just swallows and shakes his head. “I don’t ... I don’t think she will,” he replies with a broken voice, “You should have seen how she reacted. She was hysterical!”

“What’s happening here?” I ask, since neither of them seems to have noticed my presence.

The boy squirms and Haymitch rubs the back of his neck in discomfort. “The kid here asked sweetheart to marry him and she just screamed at him and threw him out,” he explains looking at me rather helplessly. 

“What are you going to do about it?” I ask both of them.

“I’m going to drink,” replies Haymitch, “and I think the boy here is going to cry, right kid?”

Peeta glares at him before turning to me, his eyes wide and hurt. “I’m not sure what to do Ma’am Sae,” he replies. “I really thought she’d say yes...we’ve been doing well, we’re helping each other heal…I think I should move out maybe. But she doesn’t sleep well without me…I don’t know…” he trails off helplessly. 

He really does look stricken. And the girl ... I don’t know what is going on in her head, but I plan to find out.

“Stay here boy. Don’t drink,” I tell him before turning away. I’m not about to see my little world crumble around me without doing something about it.

I find Katniss curled up on the couch, her eyes puffy and red, and her cheeks sticky with drying tears. As soon as she sees me entering the room she hiccups and buries her head in the cushions.

“Please Sae, please don’t,” she pleads.

I move her legs and seat myself on the couch, pulling her in an upright position. 

“Dear girl, what are you doing? Why did you send your boy away?” I ask her, trying to keep out any trace of reprimand from my voice.

She tugs at her sleeve. I haven’t seen her this vulnerable since before the boy returned from the Capitol. “Peeta asked me to marry him, but you know that already,” she whispers, “I can’t, I should have never allowed myself to get so close to him.”

My heart fills with dread. “Why? Does he not make you happy?”

She shakes her head vigorously as if she is shocked at the thought. “Sae, he makes me happy, happier than I ever thought I could be,” she replies, her eyes spilling fresh tears, “it’s too much, it’s not right, not when everyone else has lost so much!”

I pull the girl towards me and put my arms around her, feeling a twinge in my heart at the memory of my dead daughter. I’m not going to allow this girl to bring about her own misery, not when she has been given a chance at real happiness. 

“Are you talking about Prim?” I ask her cautiously.

“Prim, Finnick, Rue, Cinna...everyone, everyone!” she cries in my shoulder. “They’re dead, all dead! I cannot be happy, it’s not right Sae, it’s just not right...” her voice trails to a whisper and for a minute, the only sound that can be heard is her heavy breathing as she tries to stifle her sobs. 

After she calms down, I rise to the kitchen to make her a mug of tea, and I wrap a blanket around her shivering frame.

“Sweet child, you are too hard on yourself,” I tell her quietly.

She shakes her head stubbornly. “No, I’m right, you know I’m right,” she scowls.

I know no such thing but I try a different approach. “Your Peeta, is he a good man?” I ask.

She replies without missing a beat. “Yes. Yes… so, so much.”

“Do you think he deserves to be happy?”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Yes he does, but - ”

I raise a warning finger and look at her sternly. “No, not buts. Does Peeta deserve to be happy?”

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean why. Why does your boy deserve to be happy?” I insist.

Her shoulders slump and she stares at her steaming mug. “Because he lost everything. Because he is brave, and strong. Because he helps people,” she replies.

“What else?” 

“Because he fought so hard against the Capitol, he was hurt and nearly killed, but he survived.”

“How is he different from you child?” I remind her gently. “You and him lost and suffered and fought in the same war, why are you harder on yourself than on him?”

“Because it’s not his fault that his family and friends died!” she snaps.

“And do you really think that it is your fault that you lost your friends and your sister? Really, child? Think about it,” I respond, trying to make her see reason. “I don’t know how Finnick O’Dair died, and I don’t even know who Cinna is, but I know that it cannot be your fault. You and your boy, and your lost friends have fought a war. And in a war, everyone ends up a loser, through no fault of his own.”

Katniss doesn’t answer me, but I can see that she is thinking hard.

“Do you love him?” I ask her suddenly.

“Of course I do,” she replies rather wistfully, “how can anyone not love Peeta?”

I smile at her gently before removing her mug and enveloping her into a tight hug. “Then love him dear girl, love him and marry him and let yourself be happy,” I murmur.

She swallows a sob and looks away. “But he wants children, and I don’t want them. I don’t think I ever will,” she admits. 

“You’re a child yourself,” I reply, “and a child can’t think of having children. Peeta will understand. He loves you so much, surely you can see it?”

She links her tiny hand with my calloused one and squeezes it tightly. “I do see it, Sae. And every day I try to convince myself that I may one day deserve him.”

“I think he wants nothing more in life than to convince you himself,” I tell her, “and he’s sitting with Haymitch at the moment, waiting for you to allow it.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I look at them, I feel that my old, worn soul is suddenly engulfed with warmth that has nothing to do with the raging fire that burns in front of us. I’ve never seen two hands so closely and tightly entwined, at least not since the Opening Ceremony of their First Games. They had stood so tall and proud in that carriage that day, and so heartbreakingly terrified, with only their linked hands to keep them from falling off and falling apart.

They are scared now, and they tremble as they hold on to each other, but there is no hesitation in their voice as they feed each other the burnt bread.

“I promise to make you happy, to make you believe that you deserve to be happy, and to stay with you always,” he vows, strong and steady as she desperately needs him to be, “I love you, it was always you.”

“I promise to allow myself to be happy, to make you forget all the lies, and to keep you with me always,” she replies, alive and healing as he anxiously wants her to be, “I love you, it will always be you.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Doctor says it’s a growth that shouldn’t be there. It is slow, but steady, and soon it will grow so much that my body will give up and stop fighting it and then I will die. I take the news well. After all, I am seventy-six years old and have lived far more than I expected to. It’s been a very comfortable life in the past fifteen years, and I am ready to let go.

I don’t even have to worry about my granddaughter. Peeta allows her to work in the bakery with him. She sweeps the floors and cleans his trays, and for that he pays her far too much and provides her with daily bread and game from his wife’s hunts. Delly employs her to iron dresses before hanging them in her shop, and Haymitch, who has defied the odds even more than me and is still alive, employs her to clean his house once a week. She has learnt to take care of herself, and I know that she will live well and be happy. 

It’s not very comfortable for me to be out of bed this evening, even if I’m seated in a soft armchair in front of a fire. The pain in my stomach is bad, but I hold off from taking morphling this evening. There is a tiny little person that I am going to meet tonight, and I want to be totally awake when doing so. 

Her father carries her, a squirming bundle of blankets and mittens and pure beauty. He kisses her cheek softly before placing her in my outstretched arms and I gently stroke her sweet face, those soft, dark curls and hold her tight to me like the precious, tiny gift that she really is. The infant looks like hope, she smells of strength, and feels like love. That deep, brave, beautiful love her parents share. 

“She is a very fortunate little girl,” I whisper.

“We are very fortunate parents,” the boy replies, unable to tear his eyes off his daughter.

The girl looks at me, and the only thing I see in her eyes is the clarity and brightness brought about by the guiltless happiness she has finally achieved.

“What is her name?” I ask, as the baby gurgles and turns her head to look for her Papa and Mama.

“She was born at sunrise,” Katniss begins, looking at Peeta.

“So … Alba,” he finishes with a proud smile. 

I look at Alba, the sunrise to my sunset, and think of all we went through to achieve this single, perfect moment. I will not see Alba grow, I will probably not even hear her speak, but I have lived the turmoil that led to the peaceful world she now lives in, and all that we went through now suddenly makes sense. 

I give her back to her parents, who hold her both in a tight embrace. I look at them with pride, but mostly with gratitude, for refusing to play the Games the way we had collectively ordered them to do. For their disobedience, we lost a lot, but gained much more, for Alba Mellark will now grow in peace and happiness, with a mother and a father who will forever teach her the most important lesson of all – that it takes one spark, just one to ignite the forest fire that paves the way for a new spring.


	14. Her Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not exactly new stuff, basically I’m integrating Forgiveness and Cushions (a separate oneshot that was always meant to be part of this story) as Gale’s PoV. I re-edited it, and added some tiny stuff, but yes, many of you have already read this chapter so please don’t be mad! 
> 
> There is only one chapter left for this story, which I promise to try and write in the coming weeks. I admit, it’s going to be quite an emotional goodbye from my end :(. Big hugs to all those who read this story, and do feel free to talk to me here or on tumblr (malteaselivesonanisland (dot) tumblr (dot) com) … I am quite a friendly well put together sort of person :) xx

The train arrives at the District 12 station in the early morning, but it will take me hours – a whole day actually - of aimless rambling around the town before I make my way to the Victor's Village. I am amazed at how well and thriving the District looks in the light of the rising sun. Even after all these years, nearly twenty since the end of the war, buildings still look new, and I'm proud to see that there are many familiar faces from the Seam who now own their own businesses, working and trading in harmony alongside the few merchant families that had survived the bombing.

The bakery is clearly visible in the Square, and so is the blonde baker who owns it, but I steer away from both. I am not quite ready yet to face that part of my visit so early in the day. As I walk towards the meadow, I also notice that the Seam seems to exist no more, and neither does the clear, physical divide between the two classes that existed when I used to live here. To be sure, there are many more olive skinned children than blonde ones, but their features are not as distinct anymore. Also, the freedom of movement between districts is slowly eliminating the immediately discernible physical features that used to mark you to the place where you were born and destined to live in. I guess it seems strange to people of my generation, but the joyful, playing children in the streets obviously don't care. My heart fills with a sort of painful happiness when I see young teenagers laughing and walking around the Town without a care in the world. We had missed out on that sort of freedom, but I'm really glad that their parents' sacrifice during the war has secured it for them.

Technically, I'm in District 12 for Government business, to speak with the Mayor on the District's security requirements in case of natural disasters. However, that particular meeting is scheduled for tomorrow, and I am well prepared for it, allowing me time to rediscover my district. The Mayor happens to be my old friend Thom, the man who almost singlehandedly reorganised the reconstruction of the District and who's been re-elected in this position for the past three tenures. He married Delly a few years after the end of war and has fathered four children, the last one a little more than three years ago. From what he tells me, settling down with the late cobbler's daughter seems to have the best decision he ever took in his life.

The meeting that I am actually really dreading is the one that might possibly take place now, in the warm looking house in front of which I am standing, if I ever find muster enough courage to knock on the door. Thom sometimes mentions them, the Mellarks, when we talk on the phone, and I know that they are both well, and that they have a child. Johanna and Mellark have also kept in touch sporadically during the years even though I'm not sure whether I am meant to know, especially since my wife never thought fit to tell me about it. They have shared so much during their captivity that I do not even consider denying her the time to speak with someone as scarred by the Capitol as she still is. It is a part of her life, of her pain, that I can never expect to understand, even though it hurts that she cannot share those particularscars with me. Sometimes I tell myself that maybe one day she will. Probably she won't.

Johanna and I have a lot of … passion in our marriage, which we use to show our love and to scream at each other during arguments, but I never deny my wife anything, not even if I wanted to. She has a very strong opinion on the extent of my interference in her wishes; it is basically one opinion that states that there such interference should be nonexistent. She is truly the only person who has managed to make me toe the line and control my impulsiveness in the past years. But she is also the one to have provided me with happiness that I still don't think I deserve and for which I have consciously decided to continue to worship the air that she breathes until I die.

I try to get my wife out of my mind and focus on the task at hand before I lose my nerve and end up rushing back to the station. I take a deep breath, brace myself, and knock on the door. A high pitched little squeal can be heard immediately from inside.

"Daaah-deeee! It's the door!"

I hear feet running towards the door followed by an adult's slower gait. A small scuffle, with a lot of giggling, seems to erupt and I hear Mellark's voice from inside saying "Alba, love, Daddy cannot open the door if you're clinging to it!"

I had hoped that the child would be asleep by now, but she is obviously wide awake and particularly excited at the idea of unexpected visitors. I am still not over the surprise at the fact that Katniss has agreed to have a child, but the main reason for dreading to meet her daughter is that I'm scared of what she might look like ... what if she is blonde? What if she looks just like Pr-

And I breathe a sigh of relief because she doesn't.

The child, not more than three years old, is perched comfortably on her father's hip, with her little arms wrapped lovingly around his neck. She seems to be just out of the bath, in pyjamas decorated with pink kittens, and with her wet hair pulled back in a tiny braid that arrives to her shoulder. She looks healthy, well and with a look of serenity that her parents and I never had at that age, and I can't help but give her a big smile. She has her mother's hair, and facial features but she definitely inherited her father's eyes and colouring. Mellark stiffens when he sees me, and she seems to notice immediately. That's where I see that she also shares her father's immediate dislike of me.

Aaaaand her mother's scowl.

"Who are you?" she demands in a childish drawl that I immediately find to be adorable.

Mellark recovers and gives me a tight smile that seems to be more for his daughter's benefit than for mine. "This is Mr Gale, an old friend of Mommy's," he explains to her. I can't help wince at his description. I haven't considered myself as a friend of her Mommy for a very long time. In fact, I'm not quite sure as to why I'm here today, but all I know is that I couldn't let the opportunity of trying to set things right pass by, especially since I actually happen to be back in the District for the first time since the end of the war.

The little Mellark girl seems pretty unimpressed at the sight of me, and fixes me with an indignant glare before tightening her grip around her father possessively. "My Dah-dee is my Moh-mee's best friend," she points out to me with a furrowed brow.

Mellark beams at his daughter before collecting himself and inviting me in. "Katniss has just gone to Haymitch to take him some dinner, she should be back in a few minutes," he explains as he leads me to the living room. There is a delicious smell of pie coming from the kitchen which makes my hungry stomach growl, and the raging fireplace gives the house a special kind of warmth that goes beyond temperature. Everything about this house, from the small clutter of toys on the carpet, to the colourful, child's drawings that are stuck to the wall all over the living room show that there is a lot of love being bestowed on this child between its four walls. The pictures depict various scenes from her life with her parents, and it seems that the girl spends her days either baking with her father, or out with her mother in the woods. I notice that there are pictures of them all together in what seems to be the meadow that used to border with the Seam and I wonder if they will ever tell her that is the place where all the family from her father's side is buried.

I realise that I have been quiet for the past minute so I shake myself out of my reverie. "So how is Haymitch?" I ask awkwardly.

"He is fine, on most days," Mellark replies. "On good days he comes to have dinner with us," he pauses and glances quickly at his daughter, who has transferred her scowl to a look of unabashed curiosity. "The days are not always good," he finishes quietly.

"Uncle gets sniffles sometimes," the girl squeaks helpfully.

Mellark smiles tightly and turns his attention to the child. "Alba, why don't you wait for Mommy to come back to tuck you in while I talk with Mr Gale in the kitchen?" he asks as he lays her down on the couch and covers her with a blanket.

"Noooo! Dah-dee it's Cuddle Time!" she cries indignantly as she sits up to glare at me. Brilliant. Now I have also the interruption of Cuddle Time between a father and his daughter to add to my list of grievances against the world.

Mellark sighs and reaches over for an enormous cushion that is casually lying on the armchair. "Can you cuddle with Mr Cushion tonight? Just for this once?"

Alba's impossibly large eyes fill with tears and I honestly think Mellark is starting to die inside. "But you smell of cake Dah-dee, and you are warm…and it's Cuddle Time!" she protest as the tears start to flow. As soon as her lower lip starts to tremble I'm just ready to leave the house and their lives forever but before I can say anything, her father pushes her back down gently on the couch and kisses her forehead. I swear I hear his heart break.

"Sunrise, if you are a good girl and do what Daddy says, tomorrow morning you can have extra Cuddle Time with both Mommy and Daddy in the big bed, what do you say?" he asks gently.

"In the big big beddie?"

"Yes, the big big one."

"With you and Moh-mee?"

"Yes, all squashed and hugged between us," he replies with a huge smile.

"Aaaaall squashed?"

"So so squashed under the blankies. You, me and Mommy."

"Do you promise Dah-dee?"

"Of course I promise. So how does it sound?" he asks.

The tears are forgotten and Alba's face lights up as she clutches the cushion and cuddles up to it in excitement. "It sounds v'ry nice," she giggles, burying her face in it.

Mellark kisses her cheek and tucks her under the blanket once more. "You're a good girl, my sweet little one" he tells her, before leading me to the kitchen. He silently pushes in front of me a plate of that pie which smell must now be making the mouths of the whole District water. "I guess you're hungry," he says quietly, "I know that the train from Two arrived very early this morning."

I nod and thank him, still too overwhelmed, but not entirely surprised, by his kindness, and dreading the moment that Katniss will get back from Haymitch. We make small talk as I eat the pie, and I also compliment him for what must obviously be his cooking. Johanna and I cannot cook, even though we have tried many times during the early years of our marriage, but our combined income makes it possible for us to hire domestic staff at home to make our lives and that of our sons very comfortable. The Mellarks have kept it much simpler, and it seems to work well for them.

Maybe I will try to surprise Johanna with dinner some day.

I ask about the people I know from the District, but I keep questions light and simple as I don't want either of us to dwell on the ones that were lost. I don't want him to think too much about his family, and at the same time I want to avoid allowing my mind to drift to Madge. It's been a long time, and yes, she was much fonder of me than I was of her, but thinking about Madge always causes a painful prick in my heart that I try to avoid at all costs. Maybe it's regret, or guilt or perhaps the remnants of longing for something that, for many reasons, was never allowed to happen, but whatever it is, I don't ever allow myself to go down that particular memory lane.

Just as I'm about to finish my piece of pie, I hear Katniss entering the house and she is obviously surprised to see Alba on the couch alone. Because I ruin Cuddle Times, that's what I do. "What is it Little Sunrise?" she exclaims alarmed before Mellark can warn her, "where's Daddy?"

Alba squeaks something that we can't quite make out from the kitchen and Katniss rushes in, stopping abruptly as she catches sight of me. "Gale," she breathes, and looks at her husband in alarm. He grabs her hand tightly. "Gale is here to talk to you," he explains calmly, looking at me for confirmation.

I nod wordlessly. "Hi Catnip," I begin, my voice breaking slightly.

"Gale, I don't... I don't think..." she falters with her words and looks at Mellark helplessly, before glaring at him. "I can't believe you missed out on Cuddle Time," she reproaches him in an angry whisper.

"What did you expect me to do?" he replies helplessly. When she doesn't reply except to scowl, he lets out a sigh and knots his fingers through hers. "Why don't you go upstairs and tuck Alba in?" he proposes. "Then you can come down in a few minutes and see whether you are up for this."

Katniss exhales and nods her head. It's quite incredible how the mere touch from her husband and his reassuring tone manage to calm her down. "Fine," she murmurs and together they go back to their daughter so that her father can wish her good night. I lean against the kitchen doorway as Mellark hugs his daughter and showers her with kisses. "Goodnight little Sunrise, will you have good and happy dreams?" he asks her with a big smile.

"Yes Dah-dee, goodnight, Dah-dee," she yawns as she rubs her eyes sleepily. "I love you! More than Mr Cushion!" she adds loudly as she waves at him while her mother carries her upstairs.

I don't think I've ever seen, in my whole life, a smile wider than that which covers his face. Mellark didn't change at all in these years, which considering what he's gone through, is nothing but amazing. "And I love you more than all the cushions in the world," he replies back, before he turns to me and grins in embarrassment. "I've only have a few years of this left before she starts noticing boys her age," he explains sheepishly, "I'm making the most of it."

"She's cute," I reply with a smile. She's more than cute. She's adorable.

I think I might want one of these girl babies too.

Katniss returns after fifteen minutes, visibly calmer. "Shall we talk?" she asks, pointing to the couch. Mellark gives her waist a gentle squeeze and announces that he will be taking care of the dishes in the kitchen. "You're not coming?" she asks, her face falling.

"I think this is something you both need to deal with alone," he replies a bit sadly, "but call me if things get a bit rough." This last part is whispered but I can still hear it. I feel bad to have intruded without warning on what was possibly planned to be a quiet evening in each other's company, but there is no way out of it now. I guess that is going to be another thing to apologise for to Katniss.

Mellark gives me one final, wary look before going to the kitchen, and I almost laugh. He still sees me as a threat. That is ridiculous. I haven't been a threat to him for a long time, if ever really. Katniss had made her choice even before the Quarter Quell I think and, in the clarity of hindsight, it is pretty obvious that it was the right choice for all parties involved.

We make our way to the couch and I clutch at the mug of hot tea that Peeta had prepared for both of us. After a few minutes of silence, I decide to take the plunge, head first.

"I'm sorry for Prim, Catnip. I wish I could explain how sorry I am, but I don't think I can," I tell her.

She starts a little and contemplates her mug for a few moments. "I know," she replies softly, "I stopped blaming you. Some time ago."

I stare at her in utter amazement. "Really?"

She breathes in and stifles a sob. "It was war, Gale. You did what you felt you had to do. I don't understand or justify some of your choices, and many people did die as a result of them. But you're not responsible for Prim's death, not directly," she explains and pauses. "She was a victim, like many others, and there is nothing that can be done about it. I couldn't accept it for a long time, but at one point I suddenly did. And I stopped blaming you."

The tears are steaming down my face before I actually notice them. "Thank you, Catnip," I whisper, "and sorry."

She nods and reaches out for my hand. "I don't think we can ever really be friends again, at least not how we were before ... everything happened," she replies softly, "but I don't hate you Gale, I owe you and I shared with you too much to ever possibly hate you."

I had never realised how crushing the weight that was squeezing over my heart was until it is finally lifted off through her forgiveness. She stands up and opens her arms slightly. "You can hug me you know," she says with a small smile, "Peeta won't get jealous."

I'm not too sure about that but I do hug her tightly, and when our embrace becomes too tearful, I steer the conversation towards more cheerful topics.

"So Alba huh? She's sweet," I begin.

She beams back in pride. "She is truly wonderful," she replies with a broad grin.

"How did he manage to convince you?" I ask curiously. There is no negativity in my question, I am just really quite amazed and curious at how Mellark got her to become a mother.

"He never pressed me for children, even though I knew that he wanted them very very much," Katniss replies as she sips her tea calmly, "but with ever passing day he made me feel a little bit happier and a little bit safer until there came a time when I could think of nothing else but to bring a child into the world with him. I finally realised that I was not going to have to protect the child alone; he was going to be with me, all the way," she explains.

Oddly, that seems to make sense. "He really brought you back to life," I remark in awe, and she nods in acknowledgement of my statement.

"He did. I love him more than I thought I could possibly be capable of. When I see him with Alba I wonder how I could have possibly denied him a child for all these years," she replies before a small frown mars her features. "Gale ... I am not sure if...I might be hurting you with what I'm saying?"

I smile at her warmly. It's sweet of her to worry about my feelings after all that we've been through.

"I was nineteen, Catnip, in love with the idea of taking down the Capitol with you," I reply with a wry grin. "Real life caught up with me, and now I am the happiest I've ever been with a woman who calls me out on my bullshit and who makes all that we went through worth it."

Katniss seems sincerely happy at my confession, and reaches for her husband, who makes his appearance in the living room.

"How are the boys?" he asks. His face and voice indicate that he has been eavesdropping and is relieved at my latest statement. Idiot, all he had to was ask.

"Terrible. Uncontrollable. Little horrors like their parents," I reply proudly. "Couldn't love them more."

Mellark looks at his wife and cocks an eyebrow at her in an unspoken question. She nods softly. "We're expecting again," he announces shyly, and I see that he is trying hard to keep his excitement in check.

As I look at their happy faces, I'm filled with a surge of warmth and relief. Everything is good, everything turned out fine. Just as it was meant to be.

The Mellarks invite me to stay over until the morning and we spend most of the night up, talking, catching up, and going through the Memory Book that they had compiled in the first years following their return to Twelve. I sob openly over Madge's picture, and stay up, long after they both go to bed, to apologise, to finally bid her goodbye and to ask her to look over my family. Mellark has captured her reserved, pure smile perfectly and I know that this is how I will always remember her in my heart.

The following morning I am woken up early by the sound of tiny pattering footsteps in the landing upstairs. I smile to myself as I hear Alba giggling loudly as her father opens the door to their bedroom for the promised Cuddle Time. Her excited squeals make me ache with the want to go home to my sons and wife.

I wonder how I will convince Johanna to try for another baby.

Eight months later, Johanna and I receive a letter from the Mellarks containing a picture of their newest addition, a blonde, curly haired boy, whom they called Aidan. Three months later, we send them back a picture of our own new baby, our grey eyed beautiful Elisa.

At the post office, just before posting the letter, I reopen the envelope on whim and add a tiny note to the back of the photo.

_Mellark, thanks for introducing me to Cuddle Time. Now keep your son away from my daughter._

Some things just have to be said. Just in case.


	15. Their Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the final chapter… Sorry for the delay. This was incredibly hard to write, and it was much more emotional for me to say goodbye to the Mellarks than I could have imagined it to be! Author’s note at the end …

I find the kitchen to be surprisingly free from my brother’s constant chatter as I make my way down from my room. It’s Saturday, the only day where I like to sleep in or read in bed until late, and usually, by this time, Aidan would be sitting at table, talking non-stop about a seemingly endless list of topics which he thinks Mom would be interested in. She would be humouring him in response with an odd word here and there whenever he stops to breathe, but would mostly sit next to him in silence, content to hear him ramble on, asking questions which he has a habit of answering by himself. 

My little brother’s propensity to talk away one’s sanity drives me crazy. But this morning, I’m unnerved by the silence, and when find both my parents sitting at table with linked hands and haggard faces I start to actually feel scared.

“What’s happening? Why is Dad still at home? Where is Aidan?” I fire in quick succession. 

Mom blinks away tears while Dad looks at me with very tired eyes. “Aidan is at school, it’s Memory Day remember?” he replies, his voice laced with fatigue and worry. 

Oh. 

I had definitely forgotten that. Memory Day is the most important annual event that happens in Panem. All twelve year olds are called to school on the day that, up to thirty years ago, used to be reserved for the Reaping. A commemorative ceremony usually takes place, with the names of the lost from each District honoured, and footage from different Games shown so as to ensure that the new generation of Panemians do not forget or ignore the mistakes of their ancestors. I remember my own Memory Day very very clearly. It was the first time that I had seen actual footage of the Games, I had seen my parents being reaped, I had seen them dressed as Tributes, I had seen them -” _Oh shit_.

“Oh shit,” I breathe.

“Language Alba,” my parents murmur simultaneously. 

“Sorry,” I reply as I open the refrigerator and pour myself some freshly squeezed orange juice. The fact that there is any left is actually worrying in itself because the rate at which Mom and Dad chug at orange juice is ridiculous. Something about them not having discovered oranges until they were my age bur resulting in their never being enough to spare for me. Except, apparently when my parents are making themselves ill with worry over how my brother will react to Memory Day. 

Aidan knows about the Games, of course. Just as I knew about them since I was old enough to understand what the kids were talking about at school. Mom and Dad had set each of us down when we were about seven to explain to us about their life as kids, the Reapings and the fact that they both were part of something called “The Hunger Games”. They also told us about the rebellion, and the war; but no amount of warning or knowledge can really prepare you for the moment where you actually see your mother kill another boy with an arrow, or your father mercifully ending the life of a young girl, after she was left to die in agony by another Tribute. The fear, the tears, the helplessness that I had always felt whenever I heard their story...and the idea that it could have easily been myself, had I been born just a few decades earlier, were further amplified when I had to witness, on a big screen, the two persons that I loved the most having to kill in order to stay alive. That kind of fear, not only of the unknown, but also suddenly of your own flesh and blood, consumes you. 

“You did warn him didn’t you?” I ask softly as I sit down next to them.

“Of course we did,” says Dad, “we’ve been trying to prepare him for weeks, and we also tried to tell him what to expect before he left this morning, but you know how Aidan is. He kept tripping on his shoelaces and talking about the soccer match he would be playing this afternoon. He didn’t even hear a word we said.”

That was just typically Aidan. In the past years a game that was very popular before the Dark Days, something they called “soccer”, had seemingly made a comeback. Aidan went absolutely nuts when he was first given a ball for his eight birthday and all he does after school is play this game or talk about it. It seems to be pretty simple to me - ten people chasing a ball. No touching with hands. Kick ball in the direction of a net guarded by someone far too small to defend it. Score. But for Aidan, it’s sacred game and has so many rules that he has even taken up the habit of drawing diagrams to show us how to play it. My parents and I don’t have the heart to tell him that we don’t care. Well, technically, I do have the heart to tell him so, but I’m just not allowed. Today, however, I highly doubt that my brother will be playing any soccer games after the ceremony. 

“And even if he did hear us,” Mom adds, “you know well enough that it doesn’t change a thing.”

I cringe as I remember how much I had screamed at them after attending Memory Day four years ago. How I had thrown things and raved and called them murderers, liars and how loudly I had yelled that I hated them before locking myself up in my room for a whole day. When I had finally succumbed to hunger, I had found the kitchen table full of my favourite food, and my parents’ arms around me to hold me tight when I finally allowed myself to cry. 

“He will get over it,” I tell them, “just as I did. He will just need some time, probably far less than me, knowing how he is.”

Just as if on cue, the front door opens quietly and from the door of the kitchen we see Aidan crossing the living room, head bent down. As soon as he sees us, he stops suddenly, stares at us as if in a daze, and rushes up the stairs, tripping on his shoelaces with a frustrated cry. The sound of his door slamming causes my parents to wince.

“Those damn shoe laces are going to end up getting him killed,” I sigh, as I stand up from the table. “I’ll go talk to him. Daddy, cook something nice, it always helps,” I add with a small smile as I look down at his worried face. 

Before making my way to my brother’s bedroom, I stop in the study-slash-painting room and look for the book of memories that Mom and Dad had put together so many years ago. This seems to be the day when Aidan needs to have a good look at it. 

…….

“It’s me, Aidan, open up,” I call as I knock on his door.

“No! Go away!”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be alone!”

“I don’t care. Open up!”

“No, leave me alone!”

“Tough luck buddy, I want to speak to you!”

“I said go away!”

“Open _up_ , Silkworm,” I growl. This is ridiculous. Twelve year old younger brothers should not be such a _constant_ source of annoyance. 

There is a moment of silence before the door is yanked open and I see my brother’s face glaring at me. “Don’t call me Silkworm,” he hisses indignantly.

I’ve been calling him Silkworm since Elisa Hawthorne, during her family’s annual visit to Twelve last summer, had pounced on him and remarked that his hair was made of silk. 

Uncle Gale had not been impressed.

“Johanna, get our daughter off the Mellark silkworm,” he had muttered under his breath. Since that day I made sure the nickname stuck. Aidan hates it, although not as much as Daddy. But then again, Dad is not particularly keen about anything that Uncle Gale says or does anyway. 

I walk past Aidan and curl myself up on the window sill, repaying his glares in double doses. After a few seconds of silence he shrugs and goes about ignoring me as he picks up from the floor a remarkable amount of strewn t-shirts.

“Are you cleaning up?” I ask him in amazement. My brother doesn’t clean up. My brother is in fact so careless and untidy that he breathes clutter just by entering a room. Paintings fall at an angle, and furniture seems to move the minute he walks past it. It’s actually a recurrent joke at home, and the only source of disagreement between our parents. Mom has given up on cleaning Aidan’s room ages ago – agreeing that he will pile up his dirty laundry and sheets outside his door once a week. Dad, on the other hand, insists on barging in at unannounced moments and standing on guard until my brother brings the inside of his four walls to a state of basic hygiene.

The arguments are as recurrent as they are consistent.

_But this is my room!!_

_And you are my son! Do you think I’m going to let you fester in your own filth?_

_But Mom lets me!_

_Then when you would’ve gone missing for a few days, Mom will have to look for you under your own pile of sh- DIRT by herself!_

_Fine! I’ll call for her not you!_

_Clean up. NOW._

Then Mom would interfere, they will shout at each other in the kitchen, and then they will lock their door that night, and I will have to prepare breakfast the following morning for myself and Aidan. Dad will whistle all day, and Mom will munch on cheese buns and smile. Predictable and gross. I wouldn’t have it any other way though. 

Nevertheless, seeing Aidan clean up without such drama is worrying. 

“Yes,” he replies to my question with a scowl as he dives under his bed to collect what might possibly be a multitude of long-lost socks. “I’m scared not to,” he continues, his voice muffled by the bed covers, “because apparently Mom and Dad kill people.”

I gnaw at my bottom lip for a second. I know exactly what turmoil he is going through at the moment. He must be so scared, so confused. “Silkworm, Mom and Dad don’t kill people,” I reply gently, “those were horrible times, you know how things went under Snow. They’ve been telling us about it now for years at school. You will even have to write essays about them soon enough, and teachers expects As from me and you,” I add with a smile.

Aidan’s head comes out from under the bed, and he gives me the look that Mom always gets when Dad and I make jokes that are not appreciated. 

I roll my eyes and lower myself down on the carpet next to him, placing the book next to me. “Aidan, they were sent to kill each other in the Games, those were the rules. They fought in a war! What could you possibly expect them to do?”

My brother blinks rapidly, focusing on a spot on the carpet in order to hide the fact that he’s moments away from bursting into tears. I’ve never seen him so completely miserable. He looks so young in the rare occasions when he’s not being an annoying, but always cheerful, ass that I actually consider whether to give him a hug. “It’s just that … I don’t know them anymore,” he confesses, looking up at me as his voice suddenly breaks.

I sigh as I run my hair through the blond, shiny hair which I envy him far too much. “They were scared and were still ready to give up their life to protect each other and the ones they loved,” I explain to him gently, “what is there not to know?”

He doesn’t answer me for a while, but then nods and murmurs “yeah, I know.”

“They’re still Mom and Dad,” I continue, “but now you can understand why they have nightmares, and why sometimes they are not like all the other Moms and Dads.” Just a few months ago, on the night before my sixteenth birthday, I was woken up by Mom holding me close to her and sobbing before Dad came in and tried to gently pry me away from her grip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he led her back to their bedroom, “you’re turning sixteen. Nightmares.” That had been enough explanation for me. The older I grew, the more I understood, the more I empathized. The fact that they actually managed to get this far is almost incredible for me, and I love them so, so much for it. 

My brother needs to understand. “They’re still brave and strong and they love us more than anything,” I insist, “but they had to go through something very very bad, and our role is to be thankful and supportive, and not to judge them.”

Aidan tugs at the corner of his sleeve with his teeth, a habit which he developed when he was thinking deeply. “They showed us bits of different Reapings,” he explained, tears now flowing freely, “then they showed us their Reaping, and Auntie Prim was screaming, and Uncle Barley was crying. He was crying so hard and Uncle Naan and Grandpa Mellark were holding him because he couldn’t even stand up.”

I nod but remain silent... it’s obvious that he wants to let it out of his chest. But my heart does clench with a familiar pain when he mentions them. Most of the people our parents loved were gone by the time they were just a little older than me. Useless, painful deaths that could have been avoided. Also, I wish I could have met my uncles and my aunt. I wonder what life would have been for us if we had them around.

“And then they showed us the Opening Ceremony, and Mom and Dad were all dressed up and waving and there were so many people and it looked a bit like the opening ceremony of the Soccer tournament without the horses and now I know why Dad won’t watch it with me!” he rambled in one breath before he stopped to breathe though his sobs.

I gently put my arm around him and pull him close to me. He seems surprised, but doesn’t resist. “Well, a long time ago, opening ceremonies were usually for tournaments such as soccer and all other sorts of competitions,” I explain, “it was President Snow that turned them into an event to present the Tributes. So you should be happy that they are now there to make people cheer once again for athletes and for their favourite team.”

“Mom and Dad do not agree,” he sniffs back at me.

“And they never will, but we cannot possibly understand what they went through,” I reply, “can you possibly imagine yourself having to face the possibility of being a Tribute at your age?” 

Aidan shakes his head before burying it in my shoulder. I wince at the state my T-shirt will be in. “Once you transfer all your snot to my shirt, will you go down and talk with them?” I ask him gently. 

He dries his eyes with his sleeve and resumes his nibbling of it. “Are they mad at me for hiding up here?” he asks. 

“Of course not” I reply, trying to reassure him, “they’re just very worried. I did much worse than you after my own Memory Day, don’t you remember?”

He frowns and shakes his head. “But you scream and lock yourself in your room all the time,” he replies rather unfairly. “It’s got something to do with periods right?”

I gape at him. Would he scream if I tried smothering him with his pillow? 

“How the _hell_ do you know anything about periods, Silkworm?” I ask as I glare at him menacingly.

He has the grace to squirm away from me. “Dad told me about them some months ago, when I complained that you and Mom were eating all the chocolate, and being grumpy and cuddling on the couch,” he replies as he traces invisible lines on the carpet.

“And what did he tell you exactly?” I huff at the thought of my cycle and Mom’s being part of a conversation between my Dad and my brother, as well as for the fact that Aidan had the cheek to complain that we were eating chocolate.

“All sorts of disgusting stuff,” he answers me with a look of distaste, “and he also mentioned things like respect, gratitude and appreciation for all girls. And he said that I had to be nice to you and Mom on those days to avoid having my head bitten off.”

That is so much like Dad that I can’t help grinning. “Good, make sure you remember that piece of advice,” I tell him, “but promise me that we will never, EVER, speak about my period again!”

He stares at me seriously. “If I ever do mention it again, slap me,” he pleads.

I am about to give him a hug, but then I decide against it because there has been already far too much sibling love going on for one day. Instead, I hand him over the Memory Book. “Read this,” I tell him softly, “and you will be able to see just how much love and strength Mom and Dad can teach us. Once you’re ready, come down and have a chat with them.”

….

I find my parents waiting for me next to the stairs, looking up anxiously. “He’s ok,” I whisper before leading them to the kitchen, “he’ll come down to talk to you soon.”

Their relief is so visible that I just open my arms wide and hug them both to me. “I love you Mommy and Daddy,” I murmur as I feel them both tightening their grip around me. 

“Thank you Sunrise,” says Mom as she tucks my hair behind my ears. It’s grown a little too long, and even though I pull it up sometimes, I never braid it. Mom says that I look a lot like her when she was my age, and it might confuse Dad when he’s having a bad day. It might be too much for him to handle if there is also a non-shiny sixteen year old Katniss having to compete with a shiny one. I don’t mind – it’s one of the small prices in my life that I will always pay gladly. 

“You’re welcome,” I reply softly.

Aidan doesn’t come down for lunch and when I check on him I find that he’s asleep, with the Memory Book clutched tightly in his arms. I help my parents prepare dinner, and I’m relieved to see that they’re holding up well.

Just as we’re clearing up, I suddenly see Dad glower at someone outside the window overlooking our front porch. “Your boy’s here again,” he grumbles at me.

I grin as I catch sight of Ben, my childhood friend - and something more - approaching our house. Ben is Aunt Delly’s and Uncle Thom’s son, the unplanned youngest of five and, in his words, the result of his father’s particularly successful fifteenth anniversary dinner. We’ve been friends ever since I can remember, but last summer he disappeared for a couple of months due to a severe bout of whooping cough and came back looking tall, grave and grown up and particularly appreciative of the attention that I suddenly didn’t want to stop giving him. Since then, being friends was not enough. Dad used to love him until he saw us holding hands at a fair and ever since, Ben lost the right to call him Uncle Peeta and to be served by him at the Bakery. Aunt Delly finds it hilarious. 

I wave at Ben from the window mouthing that I will be out in a few minutes. As Mom helps me out of my apron, Dad steels himself to give me his usual lecture.

“Hands where I see them, one hour on the porch, and no kissing,” he orders.

“Dad, we agreed to kissing last week!”

“I changed my mind, the boy is looking frisky today,” he replies glaring at Ben through the window. Ben is not looking any different than usual, though I really like the way the T shirt I bought him for his birthday fits around his shoulders. 

“Daaaad! Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do. It’s him I don’t trust,” he snaps, “look at him, look at how arrogant he is looking today!”

Ben is standing nervously on the steps, hands dug deep in his pockets, and with his shoulders hunched. I give Mom an exasperated look, and she rolls her eyes.

“Love, what kind of lesson are you teaching our daughter if you go back on your word?” she asks him as she slips her arm round his waist. Dad mumbles something but I know that he’s wavering when she kisses him gently on the cheek. “He’s a good lad, and she’s a good girl, let her be,” she adds for good measure.

“Fine, but no holding hands and you’re back inside before the sun sets,” he concedes.

Before I can negotiate further, Aidan makes his appearance in the kitchen, still clutching the Memory Book and looking contrite and miserable. All thoughts of me and Ben are forgotten as my brother runs towards our parents and hugs them tight. 

“I’m sorry, you’re so brave and good, I’m sorry!” he sobs as Dad rubs his back comfortingly and Mom holds him tight. 

“Is there anything you would like to ask us?” asks Mom.

“Yes. Everything,” Aidan replies as he holds out the book.

“Then I think you need some hot chocolate to help you through,” Dad replies with a small smile as he leads him to the kitchen counter.

My brother tugs at his sleeve and looks confused. “But Dad, I don’t have a period,” he remarks with a small, puzzled frown. 

“It’s OK son. There are some situations in life that will always require hot chocolate, and this is one of them.” 

….

Even though I snuggle in the warmth that Ben brings with him, I still can’t help glancing frequently through the window that leads to the kitchen. The scene doesn’t change much; Mom and Dad have their arms around Aidan as they go through the Memory Book and share their loss with him. My brother is still crying, but he also seems to be rapt in their story and for once in his life, ready to listen and to understand. I remember having the exact same conversation four years ago. It’s not something that I will ever forget in my life. 

“You’re awfully distracted today,” Ben remarks as I shift in his arms for the fifth time to look inside.

“Sorry,” I reply with a sad grimace, “it’s Memory Day. Aidan is getting his talk.”

Like me, Ben is the son of survivors. Even though they did not go through the Games, his parents, especially his Mom, suffered great loss in the war, and saw the District burn to the ground. His parents, just like mine, lived through the Reapings and the dictatorship and our generation has to live their healing process, and help them through the burden of their memories. To a certain degree, he understands what is going on in our family today.

“You should be inside with them,” he tells me gently as he laces his fingers with mine, “your Mom and Dad need you today.”

I’m not exactly sure whether it’s his tone or his words, but I suddenly feel a lump forming in my throat and my eyes watering with tears. “Will you be mad?” I ask him softly.

“Of course not,” he replies truthfully, “how can you think so?”

I smile at him and hold his hand in both of mine as I lean forward to kiss him gently. “I’m lucky to have you, Ben Styles,” I whisper truthfully. 

“I’m here to stay you know,” he grins shyly, “even when you go off to Four, I’ll come with you, if you’ll have me.” 

At his words, my heart starts beating so fast that I can hardly hear myself think. Does he really mean it? This is a conversation that I still need to have with my parents, but my plan is to go off to Four to train as a doctor in the Medical School that my grandmother founded and which my mother sponsored with a portion of her Victor’s winnings. Even though I had confessed this dream to Ben, I never expected him to consider coming with me. 

“Do you really mean it?” I whisper incredulously.

Even though Ben answers me with his lips, it is not through words. He kisses me deeply and I feel lightheaded and scared and happy and so so very warm as I hold on to him tightly and pull him even closer to me. He fills my senses and my thoughts and nothing matters until suddenly he is pulled away from me and I see Dad grabbing him from the scruff of the neck.

“Boy, you are going to come to the bakery tomorrow at the break of dawn. You are going to speak to me, you are going to ask me to court my daughter, and most importantly, you are going to _grovel_. Is that clear?” he asks him menacingly.

Ben nods his head, his eyes open wide. “Yes sir, of course sir, I’m sorry sir,” he replies as he stumbles backwards from the porch steps. He sneaks a look at me and raises his arm to wave before he catches my Dad’s look and thinks better of it before taking off. 

I storm inside and launch my tirade.

“Dad, how could you? How?!”

“That boy was all over you!”

“Well yes, because I wanted him to!”

“You’re sixteen, you’re a child and children don’t do the things you two were doing!”

“Well, what about when you were sixteen?? You and Mom –“ I stop abruptly in mid sentence and turn bright red as two pairs of startled eyes stare at me. Aidan squirms uncomfortably on his chair.

Shit.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

I stare at my hands in embarrassed silence for a few seconds before Mom moves to hug me. “Eighteen,” she tells me with a small smile.

“Eighteen what?” I ask, bemused.

“We were eighteen, and your Dad returned to me from the Capitol. We were very much in love, and we didn’t behave,” she explains, silencing Dad’s protest with a roll of her eyes. “So in two years’ time, you can compare your behaviour with ours as much as you like.” She hands me the phone and, squeezes my arm. “In the meantime, phone up Ben and tell him that he is welcome here as often as he likes, because your father and I are going to have a long chat about his possessive ways,” she finishes, shooting Dad a warning look.

There are times like these when Mom is truly wonderful. “Thank you, Mommy,” I murmur softly. 

Aidan drags Dad to the living room, probably noticing that he is looking rather forlorn and defeated by the women in the family. “Da, let them be,” we hear him telling him soothingly; “you and I had a difficult day today. Let’s just watch soccer until dinner and forget all about them!”

“You’d better not touch Mr Cushion!” I warn him as I follow my brother in the living room and see him throw himself on the couch.

“I was here before!”

“I was everywhere you’ve ever been four years before you. What’s your point?!”

“I’ve had a difficult day!”

“You made it difficult for all of us! And I said _hands off_ my cushion!”

Dad reaches for my hand from his seat on the couch and pulls me next to him gently. “Can we call it a truce and have a Mellark Family Tangle?” he asks me apologetically. 

I glance at Mom, who sits on the other side of me and gives me an encouraging smile. “Ok,” I concede, “but only if you stop treating Ben so badly,” I mutter.

“I promise to try harder,” he replies, “but I miss you, Sunrise. You went from Cuddle Time with me to kissing Ben on the porch in what seems like days. I still need to adjust,” he explains glumly. 

He looks so sad, and I actually realise that I miss him too, so it’s no effort for me to snuggle up to him. “Maybe I could spend a few hours a week at the bakery after school?” I suggest.

“That sounds like a perfect plan,” he answers with a big smile.

“Well then, let’s tangle!” chimes Aidan as he scrambles on top of us, adding to the pile of Mellark limbs, hugs and smiles.

…..

_The Mellark Family Tangles continue to get us through many trying moments in our lives. Two years later, amidst protests, tears, anger, and finally acceptance, I leave for District 4, where I spend most of the following five years getting the medical training that I need to be able to become District 12’s busiest doctor. Ben does come with me, but our youth, ambition and hard-headedness stop us from being able to live together in a new reality that threatens to change us to the core. It is during a trip to the Capitol, in a massive square full of imposing buildings and daunting monuments, that he tells me that he has decided to stay there to pursue his studies in architecture and that he isn’t sure he wants me to be there with him._

_We scream at each other in that square, make a spectacle of ourselves, and go our different ways with the memory of angry words overriding those of a lifetime of friendship. He comes back to 12 ten years late, humbled by a Capitol lifestyle that brought him no happiness, and with the sincere desire to continue rebuilding the district just like his father is still doing. I am slowly setting up my clinic next to the bakery that Aidan and Dad are running together at the time and I refuse his apologies and requests to make amends. We strive to hate each other from afar until we realise that we love each other too much to continue to do so. We had matured in the years apart, learned how to be tolerant, patient and how to love each other in a way that holds us together even thirty years later. Ben and I never manage to conceive a child, even though we try hard for many years. There is something slightly wrong in both us, which however makes us perfectly right to become the parents of two small sisters from the Community Home that need a family made up of love, fresh bread and happiness. So we are thus blessed with daughters, and they are in turn blessed with parent. The Community Home is also blessed with regular maintenance from the paternal grandfather, and a constant supply of bread from the maternal one. All in all, a win-win situation for everyone involved._

_Aidan’s life takes a much simpler turn, as is expected from someone so carefree as my brother. He never leaves District 12, is never tempted to, and starts working at the family bakery as soon as he finishes compulsory schooling. He doesn’t even have to look far to find his bride, since Elisa Hawthorne pretty much jumps into his arms the minute she gets off the train that led her to District 12. Her parents had decided to retire in the district which had seen him grow up, and she had found a job as a schoolteacher in the junior school. Not surprisingly, Uncle Gale regrets the decision to return the minute he gets wind of his daughter’s relationship with my brother._

_Dad is not particularly impressed either, and the furious (and loud) arguments between the two continue for months until they give way to silent treatment, during which Aidan and Elisa laugh their way through life and deem it a good idea to conceive an unplanned child. Aunt Johanna and Mom have to pull out their best persuasive skills to convince their husbands to make peace for the toasting, but it was only the birth of Samuel that really ends the feud, and turns my brother into a man. This is Aidan’s story to tell however. Maybe one day he will._

_…_

_It is Dad who dies first, in his late eighties, as a result of a stroke that takes him away from us in a matter of hours. He dies in Mom’s arms while she sobs and screams as her heart is wrecked with grief. She doesn’t last long after him. Their co-dependence and refusal to do anything without each other had always been a source of teasing in our family, but little did Aidan and I know the extent of the depth of their connection. Our mother refuses to eat, drink or sleep after Dad dies, refuses to talk except to cry out his name and scream “Not real! Not real!” when we try to explain to her that he cannot answer her. As a doctor, I recognise that there is nothing that I can do. Fighting against my mother’s broken heart is a battle that I know is lost from the start._

_Aidan and I never leave her side, at times alternating our time with her, but mostly carrying out our vigil on her together, seeking comfort from each other as we see our mother fade away in grief before our eyes. When it does happen, we ought to have known immediately that it was going to be her last day. She looks peaceful, calm and does not call out Dad’s name, but she fixes her stare on a point next to the open window._

_“Your Dad looks so handsome today,” she whispers to us as Aidan and I stare at each other in dismay. This was the first full sentence that she had said to us in a week, but we both feel the same feeling of dread. “He’s wearing the shirt he wore for our toasting, so many years ago. He is so young, so strong, like when we fell in love,” she continues._

_“Is he well?” my brother asks, his voice low and faltering._

_Mom nods and smiles but her next words show us that she is not speaking only to us in this moment. “I miss you too,” she says to the fixed point next to the window. She is visible glowing, and my heart is literally breaking._

_“There are your grandparents, your uncles, there is also dear, sweet Prim,” she breathers, “your father asks if you will be safe...if I had ... to go.”_

_I hear Aidan lose it next to me, and I reach out to squeeze his hand. We are both in our fifties, grandparents ourselves, but of course Dad would still need to make sure that we are safe, just as he always did ever since we were kids._

_My tears flow as I weigh the implications of my reply. “Yes Mama,” I sob quietly as I nod my head, “we will be safe, because you and Dad taught us to be survivors, just like you.”_

_“I want to wear my blue dress, the one my Peeta loves so much,” she croaks, and without a word, Aidan and I help her wear Dad’s favourite dress, while I carefully braid her snow-white hair._

_“You’re so beautiful Mom,” I whispered as I lay her down on her pillow._

_“I’m going to your Dad now,” she whispers as she reaches out for both our hands, “and we will be waiting for you.” I turn my head and cry, the grief, the loss and the fear hitting me suddenly with full force._

_“Don’t forget us, Mom,” sobs Aidan as he kisses her brow, “and say hi to Dad from us too.”_

_Mom nods one last time, and lets go with a happy smile. Aidan and I cry in each other’s arms, trying to draw comfort from our shared grief. I know that we will be fine, even though I’m overwhelmed by our loss, and not only because we have our families and loved ones to help us through. We are the son and daughter of the Victors from District 12, surviving through the strength that our parents gave us, and from the lesson of hope that we learnt from them._

_The promise that life can go on. The knowledge that things can be good again._

_They will be._

_The End._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. The end of my first ever multi-chapter fic. Thank you so much for all those who followed this story, even though it was not the “usual” sort of Everlark story. Thank you to jeeno2, sponsormusings and bigbigbigday006 and whiskeysnarker for reading snippets of this chapter and helping me out when I was ready to give up and close off the story with the “Gale” chapter. I would really appreciate to hear what you thought of this story so that I may improve my writing if I ever take the plunge to write more.
> 
> Big hugs to all, and much love. I hope you don’t hate me for ending it the way I did. Off to cry at seeing the status as “Complete”. 
> 
> Xxxxx


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